Coffee Troubles

I love so many things about coffee. The smell is absolutely my favorite. I could sniff it all day. I love the culture that goes with coffee. I love the coffee shops and the coffee language. I love to describe a drink as robust or bright. I love the excitement people feel when they discuss how to obtain a cup of coffee, and I love the look of pleasure on their faces once that hot cup is in their hands.

I just hate one thing. The taste.

I truly hate the taste of coffee. People have told me that I would like it if it was sugared up, creamed up, covered up, etc. I don't. I don't even like it in ice cream. I can taste it in frosting, rolls, cakes, and hot chocolate. It disgusts me. I feel like scraping my tongue with a comb after tasting coffee.

This is a problem that seems overcome-able.

I so much want to like coffee. I want to be excited and devise clever ways to obtain coffee. I want to drive through a coffee shop on my way to church and show up late with a hot cup of coffee that makes everyone else wish they had done the same thing. I want that look of pleasure on my face. I want an excuse to feel tired - that look that says, "I haven't had my coffee yet, so I'm going to be grumpy now."

Inspiration struck last Saturday. We were hanging out with some good friends, and suddenly I realized that these people were the solution to my problem.

"Hey!" I cried, "You own a coffee shop! Help me like coffee!"

So, on Tuesday I went to their roasterie for a cupping. A cupping is when someone who knows what they are doing prepares small amounts of different kinds of coffee for you to sample and rate which kinds you like more or less. I took a tour of their roasterie and learned the science behind coffee roasting, which is complex and wonderful.

Roaster

Bag of beans from Sumatra

Gary, my coffee educator, can tell from a single sip where in the world that particular coffee bean was grown. He can tell the amount of time the bean was roasted for and if it was roasted properly. He is a coffee wizard.

He made me some coffee and I tried it. I wanted a comb to scrape my tongue. He told me that was normal. Coffee is an acquired taste. I tasted a different kind. It was mildly better. Then he put sugar and cream into the drink and I didn't want to spit it out.

"Sugar brings out the natural flavors the coffee possesses," he told me.
"However," I told him, "I don't want to add calories and fat to it. I just want to like it straight."
"That's not going to happen."
"Challenge accepted!"

So he sent me home with the least disgusting flavor and a fascinating tool with which to make the stuff. I put to good use my special mug my daughter made me for Christmas, and I have had almost half a cup of coffee for the last two mornings. I, Sharla Hintz, will learn to like coffee, and I will like it straight up. 

Arrow Rug

Drake, my fourteen year old son, graciously offered to help me rid our house of Christmas decorations. As I stood on a ladder removing plastic pine branches from the center pole and tossing them to Drake, he squished them flat and put them into a huge cardboard box. My dog, Arrow, thought this was a giant game of keep-away in which he was the central player.

"When all of us kids grow up and move away can I have Arrow?" Drake asked.
"If he is still alive," I answered, although I can't imagine a time when the house is quiet and empty.
"I still want him even if he is dead."
"Um, that's not possible."
"Yes it is. I'll have him made into a rug."
"A rug?"
"Yeah. Like they do with bears. It would be awesome to have an Arrow rug. It would be so soft."
"An Arrow rug?"
"Yeah. They could even keep his head on and use blue marbles for his eyes."
"Drake, go look up the word morbid, and then don't be it."
"It's not morbid to keep your dog as a rug after he dies. It's just keeping him around longer."
"I'm not sure that is even allowed."
"It has to be. I've seen bear rugs."
"I don't think you would have any friends in your community if you had an Arrow rug. The kids would call you Old Man Hintz and dare each other to knock on your door."
"Old Man and Old Lady Hintz. I'm going to be married when I'm old."
"Not if you have an Arrow rug."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'm going to get married before I get weird."

These are the conversations that keep me awake at night. 

Husky Ride Along

I have a hard time saying no to my dog. It's his eyes. I'm helpless against them.

Once, I let him ride with me to pick Drake up from swimming practice. Then I let him ride with me to pick up some prescriptions at Walgreens. Now I can't keep him out of my car.

When I open my front door, he pushes in front of me and dashes to the car. He can Houdini himself through a car door opening of only a few inches. Once inside, it is nearly impossible to remove the husky. If I try to pull him out, he just hops to another seat. If I walk around to that side of the car and open the door nearest him, he simply hops to another seat. We can play this game for a very long time. He never tires of it.

I am convinced that I am a wonderful person when Arrow is in the car with me. He emanates such joy, the air almost vibrates. He lays his head on my shoulder. He presses his side to my arm in a slamming hug. He squeezes into my seat with me. That part is inconvenient.

When I accidentally left my phone in my car, I didn't think too much about running out to grab it. But Arrow did.

I was preoccupied with the hamburger browning on the stove, so I didn't notice Arrow following me like a shadow. When I opened the passenger door, he catapulted over my head and landed smugly in the passenger seat. I grabbed my phone and called Arrow so we could go back inside, but he simply gave me the I'm Going With You stare-down. I tried to pull him, but he was too quick and moved to the driver's seat. Then I charaded walking back into the house. But he did not follow.

I left the car door open and returned to my browning hamburger. Arrow stayed out there for three hours.

I'm not sure who won that battle of wills.

Happy Holidays

I love everything about Christmas. I start looking forward to it in June. It drives my husband crazy. I love singing, hot drinks, cookies, movies, snow, but I especially love the cheerful attitude people adopt for the season.

I love New Years too. Everyone is full of hope and great expectations. I love the loud parties and midnight cheering.

I dread the return of school and early mornings as much as the kids do. I hate homework, schedules, grades, studying.

I think I forgot to be an adult.

Sandy Hook

In light of the horrific incident that occurred in Connecticut, I just didn't have the heart to publish anything frivolous today.

I can't bring myself to listen to the newscasts or read the articles, so I don't know many of the details, and I don't care to. I know too much already. I find I need to discipline my mind away from severe overreactions such as forcibly confiscating all weapons in America and banning video games or movies containing any sort of violence. Action will surely be necessary, but not when emotions are running the day.

I am sad to think that I will bounce back from this.

Then again, maybe I won't. Every moment spent with my kids over the weekend was glorious. Every hug was remarkable. The sweaty smell and messy kitchen was a blessing. Bedtime rituals were not rushed but enjoyed.

If my children are not robbed from me by a sick twist of fate, they surely will be by minutes, hours, and years.

I think I, personally, will honor those who survived and those who didn't by being awake and aware during the precious moments I spend with my kids. Instead of hurrying along our schedule, I will hug, really listen, and laugh.

And I will be thankful for my messy kitchen.  

Wow.

The ocean had it's way with me today.

My gypsy parents, who sold all their belongings in order to spontaneously travel the earth, have set up camp for three weeks in sunny Florida. What else could I do but show up and enjoy the sunshine with them? I'm a good daughter.

So, immediately upon waking in our tropical paradise, Mike and I donned our swimsuits and gave ourselves to the waves. I spent a large part of the day upside down with my feet bobbing in the crashing waves and my head pounding into the sand. After a few hours, the ocean decided it was done with me and spit me unceremoniously upon the sandy beach.

This is where it gets bad.

Since the ocean was done with me, I headed to the pool to find my dad. My balance was gone due to a morning spent being tossed like I was in a washer set to sturdy, so I stumbled drunkenly as I searched.  My glasses were back in the room, so I squinted trying to locate my dad, and finally spotted his baseball hat and headed to his table.

Stumbling and squinting, and with a nest of sandy hair erupting in all directions, I squinted directly at my dad and said, "Wow!"

But, the man I was wowing was not my dad. Just a guy in a hat.

I just stumbled away.

Never Do That Again

"Mom!" Makenna whisper-screamed across my phone. "I hear people walking around in the house!"
"Do you think someone is breaking in?" I asked.
"I don't know. I've been home alone all night, but now I hear people walking around. It sounds like big people. I'm scared!"
"Get Arrow with you and remember your self-defense training," I instructed as I motioned for Mike to call 911. With my heart racing, I reassured Makenna that the police could be there in a matter of minutes. "Do you hear talking? Do you think more than one person is there?" I asked.
"I don't hear talking," she whispered, "but it sounds loud, like a really large man walking around."
"Do you have a knife or something you can grab?"
"Oh! Nevermind!" Makenna spoke loudly. "It was just Nairobi. I forgot she was upstairs."

Yeah. So the dog is on a diet.