Humor - grace grits and gardening

old school or simply old? (yes Keurig and I are parting ways.)

January 8, 2015 By Talya Tate Boerner

Today I’m thinking about the difference between old school and simply old. Have I reached that point where groovy new things have passed me by? Several things have me wondering. (And p.s. this is not a sponsored post.)

Yesterday my blogger friends, Laurie and Jacqueline, mentioned two different things on Facebook that stumped me. A Wacom Pen and a Kombucha drink. Huh? Never heard of either. Am I’m living beneath an Ozark rock? Please tell me you don’t know either.

Not only do I not know about this pen and drink, I don’t really care that I don’t know. Another sign of life moving on by.

Combine this unknown pen and drink with the shiny yet old school Presto percolator delivered to my doorstep yesterday, and I’m on a old fashioned, downhill slide. (I do still shop via Amazon so perhaps that’s a point on the side of still breathing.)

Old school percolator vs. Keurig.

Do NOT say you don’t know what a percolator is. Even if you don’t. Look it up.

Yes, I have a percolator. It’s electric so not completely dark ages, but sitting beside my fancy Keurig (that turned out to be not so fancy because breaking after only two years is never fancy), it looks very old school.

Keurig and I are parting ways. Yes, we can still be friends. I will be happy to see you at hotels and at the Bat Cave, but on a daily basis, not. You sort of wore me out.

I feel relieved.

Ours was a short love affair, but I take full responsibility. I changed. I came to realize the more I write, the more coffee I drink. Those annoying, expensive cups began to pile up in my garbage. Would Hemingway fiddle with those cups? I think not. Plus, if we are being honest, there was only one brand/flavor I really liked. It was easy to find in Dallas, but nearly impossible to locate in Fayetteville.

On this bright, clear 7 degree Fayetteville morning, I’m enjoying my first cup of freshly ground Arsaga coffee.

The rich aroma fills my house.

I have a steaming pot ready and waiting which is good because my downstairs is only 57 degrees. I cannot figure out the complicated thermostat that is apparently permanently programmed for chilly. (Another sign of aging, but seriously, why can’t thermostats simply have an on and off switch with a lever for temperature control? Yes, I’m rambling = another sign? Sigh.)

So. Am I a coffee snob? Maybe.

Arsaga coffee – Winter Blend.

I want to buy freshly ground local coffee or grind my own. I want to smell it. And the sound of coffee percolating? Ahhh, lovely.

Mainly, I want a coffee pot that brews super hot, flavorful coffee. Even if it’s old school and not the coolest thing in town.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

[tweetthis url=”http://wp.me/p58902-1gv”]Keurig and I are parting ways. Sorry, I changed. #Presto #oldschool #percolator @ArsagasCafe [/tweetthis]

Musical Pairing:

Humble Pie – Black Coffee

The Scary Side of Christmas

December 21, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

As a child, Christmas was my favorite time of the year. Homemade stockings hung by the chimney with extra-care. Daddy was in a semi-decent mood. Yummy food spread on the kitchen countertop morning, noon and night. School was out for weeks. Sometimes knee high snow fell while I slept. Plus, Christmas was Jesus’ birthday which included certain church perks like singing Christmas hymns instead of regular hymns and receiving tangerines at the end of the Christmas program.

Brinkley Chapel Choir. (l-r Monica, Staci, Lesa, Mitzi, Me, Kim, Karen, Jamie)

But.

In my young mind, there was a scary side of Christmas, too. A dark side that adults glossed over or ignored altogether. Two worrisome things in particular kept me awake at night during the most wonderful time of the year.

Number 1 Scary Christmas Thing: Jesus was born to a very young virgin mother. Although the specific details of being an unspoiled virgin versus “one of those girls” were fuzzy, I had a vague idea of what it meant.

WHAT IF THAT HAPPENED TO ME?

I wanted no part of it.

When the angel Gabriel said, fear not for behold I bring you tidings of great joy, Mary and her whole family went right along with everything. Mary was so wonderful and worthy she even sang a song about it.

If Gabriel visited me in the night, such tidings would not be well received by Thomas Tate.

Daddy (Thomas Tate)

Not at all.

I also believed the more I stewed on something, the more likely a self-fulfilling prophecy would occur. So I tried to focus on other things—anything other than being a pregnant virgin child like Mary. Like trying to be extra good and not pouting because Santa Claus watched my every move.

Number 2 Scary Christmas Thing. The Naughty or Nice List that controlled Christmas. I knew Santa made a list and checked it twice, but that’s all I knew about his curious list.

When did he make the list?

What were the list guidelines?

Exactly how bad did I have to be to find myself knocked off the good list and onto the bad list?

I had lots and lots of questions that no one seemed qualified to answer.

Each year, I felt certain I had NOT been good enough. All throughout Christmas Eve night, I worried that I would wake on Christmas morning to no toys, no new Barbies, no clothes even. Nothing at all. After all, I wasn’t nearly as agreeable as Mary (see Number 1 Scary Thing above).

Worry-wart much?

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

[tweetthis]The scary side of #Christmas…Yikes! #VirginMary #BetterNotPout[/tweetthis]

Musical Pairing:

Mindy Gledhill – Santa Claus is Coming to Town

I’m official. I have an Arkansas driver’s license!

December 4, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

I have exciting news! So exciting that I’m using an explanation point right off which I rarely do. Yesterday I became an official Arkansas resident again. Totally legit because I went through the process of proving my identity to re-gain a shiny new Arkansas driver’s license. I’ve come full circle. Can I get a Woo Pig Sooie? And might I say, the process was downright pleasurable compared to doing anything associated with the driver’s license process in Dallas, Texas. An-eee-thing.

Let me compare.

The last time I renewed my license in Dallas, I drove downtown on my lunch break, searched for a parking spot near City Hall, fed coins into a meter, walked half a block avoiding eye contact with panhandlers who are part of the landscape, found my way through the massive building to the driver’s license department, and waited thirty minutes in a cramped, crowded space for my number to be called.

Dallas City Hall

“Now serving 185.”

I was 301. Or something like that.

No one dared smile.

I felt certain I would leave with the flu.

Three weeks later, I received my new license in the mail. Was that me? I looked thin, haggard, sleep-deprived. Because I was.

Fast forward eight years or so…

This time I drove five minutes through the University of Arkansas campus, admired the gorgeous Christmas decorations adorning sorority house row, pulled into a free parking space five steps from the door of the revenue office. The revenue office that supports the Razorbacks. Gotta love that!

I walked right in and froze, not sure what to do or if I was in the right place because there were more employees working behind the counter than customers waiting. Was that even allowed?

I pulled number 42 from the ticket machine.

Immediately I heard “41”.

Before I took a seat, I heard “42”.

Just wow.

I handed over my identity papers because paperwork requirements are the same everywhere, and there’s that whole terrorist issue, BUT when the process is handled by an employee named Ellen who smiles and seems to actually enjoy her job, it doesn’t seem so arduous.

We chatted.

She asked me a few questions and in no time handed over my new Arkansas plate.

I grinned like a fiend.

“Did you not like Texas?” Ellen asked.

“No, I did. But I love being back home in Arkansas.”

Ellen snapped my picture and I walked away gripping my new driver’s license in my palm like an Arkansas diamond. People—state of the art technology right in the little office that looked more like an old Ken’s Pizza Parlor.

Of course my picture is still a driver’s license picture, and those are never very good. But it’s tons better than the cringe-worthy one I’ve been living with for the past eight years. I don’t look skinny or haggard or sleep deprived, because I’m not. In fact, I’m at least ten pounds heavier, and I’m okay with that. I call it my ten pounds of happiness.

Because I am.