Mountain Flavor. Review on Tea Vs. Coffee

The little girl rubbed her eyes and frowned, pulled her sleep drugged feet from beneath the patchwork mound of homemade quilts and covers that were heavy enough to desensitize the sting of Winter in the Blue Ridge Mountains but not heavy enough to put her limbs to sleep. When her naked feet touched the frigid floor, she winced once and pulled her feet back up. Finally, ignoring the icy wood beneath her, she placed both feet down and hurried to the bathroom.

The Year was 1969. The girl child was nearly five, but she seemed older than her years, had always seemed to be older than her years. Even as a babe, Grandma had rocked her and worried, “She’s too smart for one so young. too many brains and a young’un’ is scheduled for an early death.” she’d told the other young’un’s, causing them always to worry about this one, watch out for her and make sure death couldn’t take her before they’d had time to play with her. Maybe the old wives tale was the reason behind all those quilts, although that is questionable.

Pulling her favorite stool up in front of the kitchen table, she eyed her Grandpa across from her, “Grandpa, you gonna take old Pearl up the mountain to git some wood?” The look that came over her was as serious as that of a child with the decision of a lifetime before her and Grandpa couldn’t help lowering his face toward his plate so she wouldn’t see the grin her earnest expression had goaded.

“Well. I been thankin’ bout’ doing jest that thar thang, Miss Jane.” He choose that moment to lift a fork full of biscuits n’ gravy to his mouth and she watched him hopefully, never flinching when he picked up the steaming black liquid that sat in the small bowl beside his coffee cup. He swallowed the scalding brew in the blink of an eye, as he had done every morning she’d been alive. She waited for him to finish off the bowl, hoping beyond hope that he’d say the words she wanted to hear from him.

“I reckon you’d be wantin’ to ride old Pearl whiles I’m cutting wood, would j’ye?”

The child’s face lit up and she grinned. “Yeh, I want to, Grandpa!” She audibly sighed because she already knew, just the asking meant she’d be going too. She started reaching for the biscuits. She’d need a good breakfast for her big day with Grandpa and Granny made the best buttermilk biscuits she’d ever tasted. Come to think of it, though, she might not have tasted anyone else’s biscuits at that time.

Here in Appalachia, the old time way of drinking coffee was boiling HOT . poured directly from the pot, blacker than black and stronger than strong, the liquid went first into the mug, which was sitting beside a small bowl. Directly from the cup, the stuff was so hot it would have scalded the tongue. so they poured small portions into the bowl to hasten the cooling process. They then lifted the bowl to their lips for drinking. I’m really not sure where this idea originated. perhaps from the early settlers. I do know that my Grandpa and Granny were still drinking their coffee this way [STRONG coffee], when I was growing up . and, although my Grandpa is gone from this earth, my Granny continues the tradition today.

Coffee or Tea? Well, that’s an easy one for me. nostalgia and memories keep this brew from settling bitter. And, when I drink my morning mug, despite the citified additions of milk and cooling time, and the lack of a bowl to drink from, I’m carrying on a “Mountain” tradition that’s as notorious as home brewed moonshine. but, that’s another story!

PS: that old wive’s tale about dying young must have been wrong. I turned 36 this month!