My Minnesota buddy, Michelle, has forever ruined my first morning cup of Joe/Java.
She claims she was attempting to open my eyes to the reality of coffee as it should be. Instead she has set me to coveting and grousing.
Never again will I breathe in the aroma of the first morning Folgers and sigh with contentment.
Michelle’s java Pandora’s Box?
French Press coffee. With REAL cream I might add.
But French Press is only done properly with freshly-roasted, just-ground beans.
(I hope I don’t get electrocuted as I drool into the keyboard. )
The time involved, the cost involved. I’ll need to get up an hour earlier each morning.
I currently have a search window open to all the possibilities of French Press coffee makers. Hmmm, for anywhere from $9.99 to $69.95 I could purchase my own.
But then where will I find the coffee? Do I need to grow my own coffee tree, cultivate, pick and roast my own beans? Which variety of tree will I get? Hazelnut, my husband’s favorite flavored coffee, or maybe the always popular egg nog or snickerdoodle for Christmas coffee celebrations.
Sigh.
I’d ask Michelle, but she’s currently away from technology and roughing it in the Minnesota wilds.
Ha!
Without electricity she can’t grind her beans. No French Press for her, either.
I feel better.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Mapping it Out
Yahoo Maps and MapQuest didn’t agree on how long it would take three girls to travel from our driveway to Michelle’s. MapQuest’s time estimate was closer. Even though a- tend-to-be race-car-driver daughter and owner of the traveling vehicle tried to make up for our frequent sanity stops, Yahoo was way off.
The most time-consuming detour was the chocolate hunt. Years ago, my hubby and I stopped in a little town in the middle of Iowa that happened to have the best candy shop ever. As we hurtled down the road on Friday, I spied the town’s name on a sign and took the exit. Three miles of winding farm country took us into town and I crawled through the main streets looking for Drew’s. I gave up and asked for directions. We sped to the shop, jumped out of the car and read the note on the door. “Sorry, Closed Early. Open at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.” Three miles later we were back on the interstate. Though I’ll admit that the disappointment, and dare I call it no-chocolate bitterness, made the next few miles quiet ones.
Even though MapQuest and Yahoo didn’t agree on length of time, had I not had the printed copies of those maps in my hand, we’d have likely ended up in Kansas City.
Oh, I know north from south and east from west in my little neck of the woods. Beyond that, they are just little letters on interstate signs. So I appreciate the maps that instruct me to turn right or left and travel 0.2 miles and take another left onto __________ St.
Michelle and I hadn’t discussed my deficiency in directional functionality. She kindly e-mailed me instructions to reach her home. Without the other back-up maps, I’d still be driving around trying to figure out which way was north or south. I suppose I could’ve had made some serious ground when the sun rose and set. Maybe.
Once we met face to face, Michelle somehow realized that my strengths do not lie in finding my way around, and when she drew a tiny map to get me back on the big interstate on Sunday she put a little N with an arrow at the top of the note. I smiled and thanked her went over the note with her -- confirming right, right, left and then right.
I’m sure her very early Monday morning e-mail was just a greeting, not an attempt to make sure we made it home. Even though she asked me if we’d made it home.
The most time-consuming detour was the chocolate hunt. Years ago, my hubby and I stopped in a little town in the middle of Iowa that happened to have the best candy shop ever. As we hurtled down the road on Friday, I spied the town’s name on a sign and took the exit. Three miles of winding farm country took us into town and I crawled through the main streets looking for Drew’s. I gave up and asked for directions. We sped to the shop, jumped out of the car and read the note on the door. “Sorry, Closed Early. Open at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.” Three miles later we were back on the interstate. Though I’ll admit that the disappointment, and dare I call it no-chocolate bitterness, made the next few miles quiet ones.
Even though MapQuest and Yahoo didn’t agree on length of time, had I not had the printed copies of those maps in my hand, we’d have likely ended up in Kansas City.
Oh, I know north from south and east from west in my little neck of the woods. Beyond that, they are just little letters on interstate signs. So I appreciate the maps that instruct me to turn right or left and travel 0.2 miles and take another left onto __________ St.
Michelle and I hadn’t discussed my deficiency in directional functionality. She kindly e-mailed me instructions to reach her home. Without the other back-up maps, I’d still be driving around trying to figure out which way was north or south. I suppose I could’ve had made some serious ground when the sun rose and set. Maybe.
Once we met face to face, Michelle somehow realized that my strengths do not lie in finding my way around, and when she drew a tiny map to get me back on the big interstate on Sunday she put a little N with an arrow at the top of the note. I smiled and thanked her went over the note with her -- confirming right, right, left and then right.
I’m sure her very early Monday morning e-mail was just a greeting, not an attempt to make sure we made it home. Even though she asked me if we’d made it home.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Mall Madness
It only took me five hours to discover this tidbit of information. You get it in two seconds.
A mall is a mall no matter how big it is.
Deep, I know. I can’t help it. Poke me and great dregs of wisdom ooze.
My daughters and I spent Saturday at THE Mall of America. This is the world famous mall near Minneapolis. NOT to be confused with the Mall of THE AmericaS in Florida.
I gleaned this subtle distinction – well – because there was some confusion. We drove from Iowa to Mall of America Friday evening to catch a movie with some friends. I should’ve driven to Florida.
But then we didn’t find that out until after we saw the movie.
Note to readers and self. Look before you leap when ordering tickets on-line.
According to Wikipedia, The Mall of America is not the largest mall in the world or even the United States, but it’s definitely way bigger than anything we got going on in Iowa.
So, in light of that fact, and because we are girls, the mall topped our must-experience list.
We tried to keep the country out of our expressions, and I wouldn’t let the girls wear their corn hats. No identifying Iowa T-Shirts for any of us, either. Totally incognito, we managed the mall without embarrassing our host family. They read this blog so I’m sure I’ll hear otherwise if we did.
Minnesota really should grow coffee trees.
The mall houses at least three thousand coffee shops.
Unless they have a special coffee shop lane and we got lost and kept circling back. That’s possible. I don’t have a real strong sense of direction. Several other stores seemed eerily familiar also. Is Minnesota a leading state in cloning?
The good news, for us, is that the mall didn’t keep much of our money. Drool from open-mouthed zombie stares maybe, but not money.
Other than the creepy, suffocating sense of déjà vu, it was a positive cultural experience.
So, if you’re planning a visit, take comfortable shoes and watch for wet shiny spots on the floor. You don’t want to slip in tourist drool. And if you miss your favorite shop on one floor, travel another few miles, and you’ll find another one just like it.
A mall is a mall no matter how big it is.
Deep, I know. I can’t help it. Poke me and great dregs of wisdom ooze.
My daughters and I spent Saturday at THE Mall of America. This is the world famous mall near Minneapolis. NOT to be confused with the Mall of THE AmericaS in Florida.
I gleaned this subtle distinction – well – because there was some confusion. We drove from Iowa to Mall of America Friday evening to catch a movie with some friends. I should’ve driven to Florida.
But then we didn’t find that out until after we saw the movie.
Note to readers and self. Look before you leap when ordering tickets on-line.
According to Wikipedia, The Mall of America is not the largest mall in the world or even the United States, but it’s definitely way bigger than anything we got going on in Iowa.
So, in light of that fact, and because we are girls, the mall topped our must-experience list.
We tried to keep the country out of our expressions, and I wouldn’t let the girls wear their corn hats. No identifying Iowa T-Shirts for any of us, either. Totally incognito, we managed the mall without embarrassing our host family. They read this blog so I’m sure I’ll hear otherwise if we did.
Minnesota really should grow coffee trees.
The mall houses at least three thousand coffee shops.
Unless they have a special coffee shop lane and we got lost and kept circling back. That’s possible. I don’t have a real strong sense of direction. Several other stores seemed eerily familiar also. Is Minnesota a leading state in cloning?
The good news, for us, is that the mall didn’t keep much of our money. Drool from open-mouthed zombie stares maybe, but not money.
Other than the creepy, suffocating sense of déjà vu, it was a positive cultural experience.
So, if you’re planning a visit, take comfortable shoes and watch for wet shiny spots on the floor. You don’t want to slip in tourist drool. And if you miss your favorite shop on one floor, travel another few miles, and you’ll find another one just like it.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Bouncing Couch Adventure - Conclusion
Seven miles from home, an accident had funneled the interstate traffic into a twenty minute a mile crawl. Finally, after we crept past the fire and tow trucks we hit clear interstate.
Rob prepared to enter warp speed.
And then the unthinkable happened.
I saw it peripherally from the mirror on the visor. Peripherally, because I’d turned to stare at Rob when he groaned. The green leather couch, airborne, headed toward a maroon van. We watched in hind-sight horror as Rob pulled onto the shoulder. The van stopped in time, and the loveseat wedged against the bridge railing.
We couldn’t leave it -- visions of late night traveling child-laden vehicles careening into the couch tormented me. Rob threw the truck into reverse and wobbled toward the wayward furniture on the nearly non-existent shoulder. I glanced into my side mirror and spied a light pole rapidly approaching.
My husband hates it when I gasp or scream when he’s driving. (Okay, so I get nervous sometimes.)
I whimpered and yelled, “Pole!” It sounded something like this. “Pole! Screech, crumple. Pole!” Need I tell you that he kissed the pole and flattened his fender on his almost new white pick up?
Not only does my husband have an excellent sense of humor, he also possesses great self-control. A tiny trickle of negative words were expelled in his sigh. He straightened up the truck and backed as far as he could.
Cliches best describe the atmosphere in the cab -- deafening silence and tension that could be cut with a knife.
He parked, waited for barreling semi’s to pass and jumped out of the truck. I followed, urging caution. The traffic flew. My hair whipped around my face, slapping me, and tiny sand shrapnel pelted me. At one point a semi kissed the shoulder as it barreled past and the resulting vacuum made certain that I’ll never need a face lift. (I don’t recommend this, though.)
I made suggestions. He answered them with muttered comments through a locked jaw and took off to push the couch out of the path of the traffic. I am smart enough to know that sashaying onto the interstate to help him would be a very bad idea. So I crawled back into the truck and prayed.
After back-tracking to the previous exit and four-wheeling into the ditch beside the interstate, we arrived home with our hard won couches.
And after a few short hours my husband spoke to me again.
Ahhhh, the joys of marriage, and free furniture.
Rob prepared to enter warp speed.
And then the unthinkable happened.
I saw it peripherally from the mirror on the visor. Peripherally, because I’d turned to stare at Rob when he groaned. The green leather couch, airborne, headed toward a maroon van. We watched in hind-sight horror as Rob pulled onto the shoulder. The van stopped in time, and the loveseat wedged against the bridge railing.
We couldn’t leave it -- visions of late night traveling child-laden vehicles careening into the couch tormented me. Rob threw the truck into reverse and wobbled toward the wayward furniture on the nearly non-existent shoulder. I glanced into my side mirror and spied a light pole rapidly approaching.
My husband hates it when I gasp or scream when he’s driving. (Okay, so I get nervous sometimes.)
I whimpered and yelled, “Pole!” It sounded something like this. “Pole! Screech, crumple. Pole!” Need I tell you that he kissed the pole and flattened his fender on his almost new white pick up?
Not only does my husband have an excellent sense of humor, he also possesses great self-control. A tiny trickle of negative words were expelled in his sigh. He straightened up the truck and backed as far as he could.
Cliches best describe the atmosphere in the cab -- deafening silence and tension that could be cut with a knife.
He parked, waited for barreling semi’s to pass and jumped out of the truck. I followed, urging caution. The traffic flew. My hair whipped around my face, slapping me, and tiny sand shrapnel pelted me. At one point a semi kissed the shoulder as it barreled past and the resulting vacuum made certain that I’ll never need a face lift. (I don’t recommend this, though.)
I made suggestions. He answered them with muttered comments through a locked jaw and took off to push the couch out of the path of the traffic. I am smart enough to know that sashaying onto the interstate to help him would be a very bad idea. So I crawled back into the truck and prayed.
After back-tracking to the previous exit and four-wheeling into the ditch beside the interstate, we arrived home with our hard won couches.
And after a few short hours my husband spoke to me again.
Ahhhh, the joys of marriage, and free furniture.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Bouncing Couch Adventure - Part 2
The couch would not budge through the door. My husband, being a handy guy, disappeared and returned with a large flat-blade screwdriver. He grabbed the couch, pushed it backward, undoing the millimeter we’d gained, and popped the pins from the door hinge.
It didn’t help.
My friend scratched her head. “We got it in here.”
Rob directed me to lift and tilt. We did, close, but still no way was it going to go through the door.
We set the couch in the corner, lifted the loveseat, and tasted success. Not so difficult, just had to slide it just so and then hug the doorway before it popped through on the other side.
My friend’s husband arrived. His face twisted as he hemmed and hawed while watching us try every possible configuration. “We got it in here.”
He took my place.
Something beautiful and primitive followed. A sweaty guy ballet of grace and agility finally nailed the sweet spot. The couch moved. They stumbled into the hallway.
Two other doors had to be dismantled. More engineering feats ensued.
While the guys grunted and conquered, I got involved in packing the kitchen.
The couch was birthed a mere thirty minutes after we arrived.
Two hours later, we set off toward home.
We couldn’t leave them to pack alone when they’d given us a free couch.
Rob was in surprisingly good spirits when we left.
We were both unaware of what waited for us down the road.
It didn’t help.
My friend scratched her head. “We got it in here.”
Rob directed me to lift and tilt. We did, close, but still no way was it going to go through the door.
We set the couch in the corner, lifted the loveseat, and tasted success. Not so difficult, just had to slide it just so and then hug the doorway before it popped through on the other side.
My friend’s husband arrived. His face twisted as he hemmed and hawed while watching us try every possible configuration. “We got it in here.”
He took my place.
Something beautiful and primitive followed. A sweaty guy ballet of grace and agility finally nailed the sweet spot. The couch moved. They stumbled into the hallway.
Two other doors had to be dismantled. More engineering feats ensued.
While the guys grunted and conquered, I got involved in packing the kitchen.
The couch was birthed a mere thirty minutes after we arrived.
Two hours later, we set off toward home.
We couldn’t leave them to pack alone when they’d given us a free couch.
Rob was in surprisingly good spirits when we left.
We were both unaware of what waited for us down the road.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Bouncing Couch Adventure
My husband deserves some sort of medal. Not only has kept me for almost twenty-five years, he’s also managed to keep his sense of humor.
Well, most of the time anyway.
I think he’s currently searching for it after yesterday, but I’m confident that he’ll find it.
Some women bring home stray children -- others stray animals. I’ve done both. In addition, I have perfected the art of procuring stray furniture. Furniture that doesn’t have anyone who really wants it pulls at my heart strings.
In my defense, I’m collecting only because we need to furnish a couple more rooms in the remodeling of our home.
Last winter in the snow and ice, hubby and I scored a load of great wood storage pieces. I need storage, I crave it. And I have a wall all picked out for this huge conglomeration of wooden hidey-holes. My husband, a carpenter, has a soft spot for fine furniture, so we left smiling. Of course, he smiled less as we puzzled-pieced the furniture into the shed, but I’m confident he will love the look when it’s all installed in the proper room.
The rooms needing furnished are in the painting stage, so my quest has intensified. A co-worker, the poor girl who is building, see previous post http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006/06/scribbles-and-scrambles-i-packed-food.html, offered me a leather couch -- free for the hauling.
If there is anything I love more than storage furniture, it would be free furniture.
Free is a relative term, I’ve noticed.
We set out to bag our couch yesterday, one of the warmest days of summer. “Kind of a nice contrast to the last furniture run in the bitterness of winter,” I suggested to my husband. He offered a tight smile. Not a good sign.
Interestingly, there were two couches, in great shape. So I rubbed my hands together and clamped down on the vocal glee. My husband shot me the look. I hunkered down on my end of the big soft couch and we headed for the door…I pushed, he pulled. Nothing happened.
That’s when it got fun. To be continued…..
Well, most of the time anyway.
I think he’s currently searching for it after yesterday, but I’m confident that he’ll find it.
Some women bring home stray children -- others stray animals. I’ve done both. In addition, I have perfected the art of procuring stray furniture. Furniture that doesn’t have anyone who really wants it pulls at my heart strings.
In my defense, I’m collecting only because we need to furnish a couple more rooms in the remodeling of our home.
Last winter in the snow and ice, hubby and I scored a load of great wood storage pieces. I need storage, I crave it. And I have a wall all picked out for this huge conglomeration of wooden hidey-holes. My husband, a carpenter, has a soft spot for fine furniture, so we left smiling. Of course, he smiled less as we puzzled-pieced the furniture into the shed, but I’m confident he will love the look when it’s all installed in the proper room.
The rooms needing furnished are in the painting stage, so my quest has intensified. A co-worker, the poor girl who is building, see previous post http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006/06/scribbles-and-scrambles-i-packed-food.html, offered me a leather couch -- free for the hauling.
If there is anything I love more than storage furniture, it would be free furniture.
Free is a relative term, I’ve noticed.
We set out to bag our couch yesterday, one of the warmest days of summer. “Kind of a nice contrast to the last furniture run in the bitterness of winter,” I suggested to my husband. He offered a tight smile. Not a good sign.
Interestingly, there were two couches, in great shape. So I rubbed my hands together and clamped down on the vocal glee. My husband shot me the look. I hunkered down on my end of the big soft couch and we headed for the door…I pushed, he pulled. Nothing happened.
That’s when it got fun. To be continued…..
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