The rich silt of coffee grounds in my sink strainer,
The pearly hue of cooled bacon grease in my cast iron skillet,
They have a way of transporting me to a different place, somewhere on the prairie,
Or the open range a hundred or so years ago.
Frigid mornings, close to the earth, yet so cold, and the warmth,
Of cooking up the coffee,
Of frying the bacon.
Assuming these things were on hand of course...
But when they were, oh sweet perfection!
Fresh coffee aroma, a neural burst down the olfactory superhighway to a primitive cortex.
Chewy, and a little crisp, salty, fatty, bacon,
A joy not savored by my Kosher, Halal, or vegetarian brethren.
The granular grounds, inky black - what compost this will make! -
And psychedelic swirl of grease in a black pan,
With water,
And a little soap.
I think of these things in my cozy kitchen,
And consider the Oregon Trail, or anywhere else like that,
As I rinse out my french press.
-- SKE
