Is it percolate or percolate?

PERCOLATE: verb (LIQUID). If a liquid percolates, it moves slowly through a substance with very small holes in it: Sea water percolates down through the rocks. Want to learn more?

I remember the sound of coffee percolating. My mother was always up early, before everyone else, before she wakes me. I am already awake.  I keep my eyes closed to protect the illusion of sleep. These memories percolate, rising up from the base, pushing through the grounds of coffee.

The house is dark, quiet. The coffee sighs as it percolates. Big sighs just like my mother would sigh her big sighs. I felt her sacrifice. I remember eating lunch at school. I would eat the cold meat sandwich she had prepared. I would bite through the homemade bread, and the gristle would catch, and the slice of cold pork would slap me across my cheek, smearing miracle whip all over my face. Still I would force myself to eat, feeling incredible guilt, yes, actual guilt over not eating a sandwich.

Because it was Her sandwich. Don’t get me wrong, we were not deprived. There was always a sandwich. There was always food on the table. But her depression upbringing would sometimes show through, like the hint of light peeking through a crack, perhaps a peekaboo of skin revealing itself through a frayed fabric.

Her special talent was the one talent she passed down to my youngest sister, which was to ingeniously find ways to repurpose the evening meal into the lunch of the next day, and then divide it seven ways. That was the old math.

I remember her buying margarine that required the colour to be added. Powdered milk. Remember milk bags? Milk came in plastic bladders that fit into a a plastic jug like holder. It was environmental.

My mother was thrifty. She had to be with 7 kids. There was the first three, Bada, Bing, and Boom. Then a five year drought before the red haired genes were found. Five more years, and I came into the world. At first, my hair was red. My beard came in red. A ginger tinge was found on my fringe. But the brownish blonde established itself as my predominant hair colour, at least until I discovered dyeing my hair.

My Mother dyed her hair on the 60’s. Frosted. That was what they called it. My Father was a Vitalis guy. At one point, they reupholstered his favourite chair as the oil stain from his hair became too evident.

After me came the girls. And then the production of children stopped. 7 was finally deemed to be enough. My poor Mother had a hysterectomy, and that was that. My Father had tried with the vasectomy, but our swimmers were not deterred. They found their way, and thank God they did, as I love everyone of my siblings. My point is that my Mother took charge and that was that.

But it was the coffee percolating in the early dawn that resonates. Everything took longer then. Espresso did not exist in the world when I grew up. Not in our world. Instant coffee did, but that was for emergencies, not everyday routine.

Perhaps it was the novelty of saving time which explained her fascination, and then reliance on 60's convenience foods. Frozen pies. Pop tarts. Cool Whip. Tang! The drink the astronauts drank.

Then came instant breakfast drinks, long before the ubiquitous smoothies. Carnations Instant breakfast. I loved the a chocolate one.

Everything you need to go on. We loved everything instant. Instant breakfast, instant rice, instant coffee. Why waste time?

We had to be ready for the future. And now, here we are. In the future. Our parents long gone. My eldest brother gone. We are living in what we thought would be the future.

We would never have imagined cell phones, or climate changes, or the rampant proliferation of American grown fascism. We didn’t even want the designated hitter.

And we did get the moving sidewalks ( in our airports). We never got the jet packs, at least not on the scale we imagined. But then we never imagined drones being used to assassinate people in other countries, guided by video game trained technicians. Kind of like a game.

We can take history back to dinosaurs, but I don’t remember real dinosaurs. I do remember bologna or baloney. But most of all, I remember the percolator in the morning, sighing in a darkened house, just asI remember my Mother making sandwiches, so many sandwiches.

Bologna Sandwich

10 mins· Yield: 1

The Classic Bologna Sandwich. It's been around for a very long time and for good reason. It's Quick, ...

Ingredients

• 2 Slices Bread (- Buttered)

• 1 - 2 Slice Bologna (- As Thick or Thin as Desired)

• Margarine, Miracle Whip, French’s Mustard

• 1 Slice Velveeta Cheese (- Optional)

• Salt & Pepper (- To Taste)

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