Cathy's Blog



How to Make the Best Cup of Coffee, Ever


 

Photo credit: Lynne Vittorio

When a former husband and I traveled through the Midwest in the 1990s, he always packed a small jar of Medaglia d’Oro instant coffee to spoon into what he called “three-button coffee,” so weak that when a waitress approached (“Care for a refill today?”) you could count the buttons on her uniform through the coffee pot. Now we have a choice; baristas are everywhere. North Americans have finally caught up with the rest of the world and learned to drink a decent cup of coffee.

However, when it comes to coffee excellence, strength is not the only requirement. Like many of life’s simple pleasures, simple is not always easy, which is why, in all modesty, I am sharing with you some secrets I have learned about making a superlative cup of coffee:

THE BEANS.  I have a friend in Pennsylvania who roasts his own coffee beans in his garage. I would do the same, if I had a garage, but instead I have a neighborhood coffee emporium that often has a line of customers out the door, so their beans are always freshly roasted. (The same can’t be said for the ubiquitous corporate brand that shall remain nameless.) I also like to make my own blend of roast: two pounds of Italian espresso to one pound of French mocha. Be sure to order it “in the bean,” because grinding must happen just moments before brewing.

THE WATER. I am lucky. I live in New York City, where the tap water is so nice we call it “Catskill Reserve.” If your local water is less than desirable, I recommend bottled spring water for brewing coffee.

THE MEASURING. If perfection every time is the goal, one must measure. My preference is two cups of water to a heaping 1/3 cup of beans, which I grind until a guest screams “Stop!”

THE TEMPERATURE. Here comes the breaking news: All home coffee-making machines–all–are terrible because there’s no way the water that starts dripping seconds after you push the “on” button has already reached a full boil. As for those large glass drip makers, by the time the water has filtered through the beans into the pot, the coffee is already lukewarm and must be reheated. Horrible! The only way I have found to avoid this problem is by brewing directly into a carafe. But how? Many years ago I found a plastic funnel (see photo) with a neck long enough to fit securely into the mouth of a carafe. Because coffee acid eats plastic, it’s now heavily duct-taped because I’ve never been able to find a replacement, and although people make jokes about it, I don’t mind. To me, it’s priceless. Fortunately, there is an alternative in the metal mesh coffee funnel that commonly holds paper filters (I use both). Unfortunately, it has no stabilizing neck, so you need to pour the boiling water into it slowly and with care. A small price to pay for a perfect cup of joe.

THE HALF-AND-HALF. Perhaps not for everyone, but for me, waking up with the knowledge that there’s a quart of it in the fridge makes a perfect beginning to my day, no matter what happens thereafter.

April 30, 2017

Second Sleep


I used to wake up in the middle of the night and stress myself out trying to get back to sleep, but no amount of thrashing around and pillow-punching, not even a double dose of melatonin, got me there. Instead I would silently scream, Why can’t I sleep through

We Are All Indigenous


The Sami delegation at Standing Rock, September 2016. Photo: Rodney White, Des Moines Register.  Until recently I had always assumed that I was 100 percent Norwegian. Although my family tree has been researched back six generations to 17th century Norway,

Defy the Wrecking Crew


Photo credit: Phil Rothenberger. Daughters Shannon (marching) and Stephanie (on my back). Protesting the massacres at Kent State, May 1970 In the sixties and seventies, the last time masses of people addressed their grievances in the streets, we took down two presidents, stopped a war, and forced

Manna from Heaven


Julia Connor
My sister has always been a forward thinker. In the 1970s she was all excited about a new and amazingly efficient technology called word processing that

Cauliflower Double-Play


Photo credit: Lynne Vittorio The stack of monster heads of cauliflower at the Saturday Abingdon Square farmers’ market looked so sensational I had to buy one. Four dollars, a bargain. It was so close to Halloween that I felt like the headless horseman carrying it home. I had to weigh it, of

Something’s Happening Here


Photo credit: #DakotaAccessPipeline on Twitter. The presence of Native Americans is mostly symbolic throughout the Dakotas, found in the names of towns, lakes, and rivers. Even the ubiquitous profile of an Indian purported to be Sitting Bull that appears on State road signs is not the real thing.

Got OCD?


Deet-deedee-deet,deetidee-deetidee, deet-de-deedeedeet-dee-dee-deet. Patterns of notes–mindless, meaningless, rhythmical, irritating, silent, nonstop finger-tapping, foot-jerking–up the scale, down the scale, and do it again. Perpetually. For as along as I can remember. Wake up in the middle

Heatwave


I turned off my air-conditioner this morning, first time in twelve days, and I just can’t get over how loud the silence is in here, or how successful I am at being able to shut out the noise of that perpetually grinding hum. Still, without my A.C. I am a limp and worthless wreck, so complaining

Wanted: A Work-in-Progress


I come from a long line of storytellers, maybe because our family had to provide homegrown entertainment on those long winter nights before the advent of radio and TV. One of the stories was about our great-grandmother, Maren Strinden, whose family emigrated from central Norway in the 1860s. When

Tales of Abbie Hoffman: Episode 2


First, a correction: My only copy of Soon to Be a Major Motion Picture disappeared long ago, so I had to rely on what turned out to be my faulty memory about Abbie’s talk show appearance in the February blog. Fortunately, I went to my ghostwriting archives before writing this installment.

Tales of Abbie Hoffman


For many years I made a fairly decent living as a ghostwriter of books because it was steady work in the Age of Celebrity we live in, during which name recognition, not quality of writing, is paramount. I learned to cope, not only with the need to keep my contributions hush-hush but also with the

Lost Month


 
New Years Day, 2016. I celebrate the final act of a three-week-long, bi-coastal reunion with children, grandchildren, sons-in-law. My idea of heaven. 1/5/16. I say good-bye to California girls. Sadly de-ornament the tree. Next, a holiday custom unique to Manhattanites: Saw off lower branches

Christmas in New York


Kathy, a good friend from college days, emailed me from Florida: “As the subject of so many holiday movies, New York acquires a mystique, an aura, a legend of sorts. So I’m wondering what it is like for you.” Ah, Christmas in New York. Last Saturday I walked along the Hudson River Park

What the Old Ones Knew, Part I


The last time I saw Carrie Berger, my maternal grandmother, she was 98 years old and under the tender care of my aunt Helen and uncle Harold. Their home that day was full of Carrie’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and although she seemed to know

Where Was I When the Lights Went Out?


This week is the 50th anniversary of the first New York City blackout. I was a welfare caseworker back then, and in the late afternoon of November 9, 1965, I had just taken the L train to Union Square and transferred to a Number 4 to Brooklyn, feeling lucky because I managed to beat the rush hour

Slow Crawl, Sudden Plunge


An explosion of color before the high latitudes go black and white–that’s what fall is to me, set against a sky my mother always called “October’s bright blue weather.” To anyone who has spent a lifetime of autumns above latitude 45, the change that’s happening now is somewhat poignant.

Picky Cook: Red Sauce


The Neapolitans call tomato sauce gravy. The upscale term is marinara. I prefer red sauce, because it conveys my preference for the plain-and-simple when it comes to everyday cooking. Fifteen years ago I went to a Neapolitan restaurant in the far reaches of Queens,