Between the end of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and the Republican Presidential debate all happening earlier this week with all the "it's coming! It's Coming!" each event received across all platforms, I got lost on an important piece of sadness, of sorts, that I just caught up on.
I remember as a kid my mom and dad had a stove-coffee percolator. They had a shiny and quite fancy silver one, all electric, for when Gramma and Grampy for dinner at a holiday (they had six children as did my parents so I imagine they had quite a scheduling trick to fit in all their kids, and their kids, for meals and visits).
We couldn’t ever immerse the electric coffee pot in the sink to clean it while the stove-top one looked like it had been around since the war of the babies. Mr. Coffee changed all that. Mr. Coffee changed everything.
As an adult, I grew up drinking mostly instant coffee though I was always tempted to emulate Walt Garrison and skip the spoon and cup, but didn’t. No one I knew had a Mr. Coffee-heqq, no one I knew could afford one.
The Mr. Coffee makers became as popular in their day and way as the Keurig machines are these days helped in no small part by Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio as their spokesperson. Until he died earlier this week, I wouldn’t have known who Vincent Marotta, Sr., was if I had found him at the bottom of a coffee cup.
But he was, for all intents and purposes, Mr. Coffee. It’s early as I type this and I try to limit myself to no more than three cups of coffee in a day, but this cup’s for you, sir, with the deepest of affection and most finely ground Arabica.