Until Sunday, I had 2 methods of making coffee in my home: instant and a carafe-less pot.  I'd been using the instant because my pot had developed a leak, but I was yearning for the taste of real brewed coffee. 

Whilst browsing the BX on Sunday I came across a French press for a very reasonable amount.  For the folks who don't know what I'm talking about, a French press looks like this:

You put the cround coffee in the bottom of the jug then fill it with not-quite-boiling water.  You wait 3-4 mins for the coffee to brew, then you slowly press the plunger down and voila!  You have brewed coffee, ready to pour and enjoy.

Having tasted coffee brewed in the manner I can safely say that I will never go back to instant or traditionally brewed coffee again.  Ever.  This press method produces a delicious brew and really lets the subtle flavors of the coffee come through.  It's wonderful, and it's easy, and I love it.

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I knitted a little something for every member of ma familia in the UK for Christmas this year, and I'm doing the same for my husband's family.  His step-mother was an easy decision; she's getting a wonderfully textured scarf, but his dad was a different matter.  He doesn't wear knitted hats, scarves or socks and it would take me ages to make him a sweater.  I've been worrying for weeks about what to make for him, and that worry had about turned to panic yesterday when I finally figured out what to make for him.  I had an 'ah ha!' moment and it came to me what to make for him:

Golf club covers.  They're quick, they're relatively easy, and they're practical.  They are, in other words, perfect for him.  So this afternoon I'm going to be breaking out my circular needles and making him some spiral ribbed club covers with colored pom-poms on the tops of them to indicate what club is underneath.

Problem solved.

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It's my husband's birthday today.  He's 34. 

Yeah, I robbed the cradle, but you know what?

He still can't keep up with me.

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I got myself all upset yesterday afternoon.  I was fooling around with Google Earth - first I went to look at our old home in South Dakota and got myself homesick.  Both Dave and I have come to regard that place as home, and we are planning to go back there when he retires. 

Then I went to look at my childhood home city - Oxford, England.  I wasn't too bad when I was looking at photos of The Turf pub where I used to go drinking and The Ashmolean museum where I spent many happy afternoons. 

Then I made a mistake.  A big one, and I don't know why I did it.

I went looking for the hospital where my dad died.  I wanted to see if perhaps the wing that he was in had a window close to his bed and if he could see outside; if he saw trees and blue skies and.....well, if he floated free above those trees and up into that blue sky when he finally shook free the flesh overcoat that had bound him to this earthly existence for three score years and eighteen.  I wanted to see if I could somehow feel closer to him if I could see the building in which he died. 

It worked.  I felt closer to him, but that proximity only served to increase my heartache.  It made my grief more tangible; it made it impossible for me to keep it under control and I ended up in my bedroom with the door closed, sobbing quietly.

I miss my dad.  I've indulged myself in memories of him recently, memories of sitting in my parent's bed when I was about three years old playing 'I spy' with my dad; Sunday afternoons spent rambling across fields, him showing me the difference between edible and poisonous mushrooms and helping me identify the various calls of native birds......of Christmas Eve midnight church services with mum and coming home to find dad in the kitchen making Irish coffee for us all, complete with cream that he'd poured over the back of a spoon so that it'd float on the top. 

Yeah, I miss my dad.  I've been drinking a cup of Irish coffee on Christmas Eve for years, but this year (and the years that follow) I'm going to make a point of doing so in rememberance of him. 

I'll sit with my cup and recount to my children just how it was to be raised by him, and I'll wish him a merry Christmas and tell him how much I love him.

*It took me almost half an hour to write that last paragraph, but it wasn't tears that halted the flow of words, it was memories*