Krups,
who I often called K, was my best friend for twenty some-odd years. From the
day we met, we were inseparable. The whir of her bladed heart made me smile as she ground aromatic java beans. Some evenings when I'd call on her for some much needed Hazelnut or
caramel decaf, she would happily comply. K didn't just hand me perfect coffee,
but she made sure my flax seed and almonds were finely chopped just the way I
liked them.
Then,
one day a few months ago, K died. No warning, no goodbye, she just didn't wake
up one morning. With tears in my eyes, I broke the news to Don. In an effort to soothe me, he suggested we
ask his friend Cuisinart in the fill K's now vacant spot.
"I
can't," I said, wiping my eyes. "It's too soon."
The
truth was, I had found K dead less than ten minutes earlier and needed time to
grieve.
As
I wallowed in grief, Don came up with another suggestion. "Hey, what about your grandmother's old coffee
grinder?
"Huh?" I said, not sure what he was talking
about.
Then, my gaze fell on the old crank
coffee mill—Goodwood, or G.W. for short—that had been living on the countertop
for several years. G.W. had never moved or made a sound, and he certainly never
complained about all the attention K got.
That
same morning after I laid K to rest in the recycling bin—I knew she wanted her
parts donated—I put G.W.to the test. I
loaded his portal with fresh coffee beans and cranked the handle, around and
around, smiling as he revealed his deep bass voice. He worked hard to produce a good java. However, because he was older and a bit cranky, it took him
awhile to get the job done.
Now,
as I sip a cup of café mocha borne from G. W.'s hard work, I smile as I realize
he has proven to be a wonderful friend. Over time, his joints have loosened a
bit and he is a bit more spry, always eager to grind my beans to perfection.
Too bad him and K never noticed each other when she was alive. They would have
made perfect companions.
