I have just had a most pleasant pot of coffee with a good friend, sitting outside in the dying late afternoon sun, talking about life, politics, history, literature, poetry, police and culture.
The sun is getting very low in the sky, and shadows are increasingly elongated - even during the early part of the day. Temperatures are plummeting - especially at night - the balmy evenings are but a memory, albeit not such a distant one - but it is still possible to sit out in an outdoors cafe space, as long as one is wearing a jacket, or pullover and long sleeved shirt. Notwithstanding the low angle of the sun, the sky is still a sharp azure, the mountains ringing us dusted with snow, snow inching downwards as the weeks progress, perhaps, looking a little like icing sugar....
The pot is my own, a Bialetti French press, imported at incomprehensible expense, but worth every penny - or cent; the coffee comes from Intelligentsia, and is mild, smooth and rich. The coasters come from a US company as well, Saddleback, and double up for use with wine glasses. The biscuits are German, and as delicious as one would expect, and the mugs proper ones, of porcelain.
The carton of milk - heresy, to the purists who dwell here, I know, but I am from northern Europe by birth and ancestry and so am very lactose tolerant - so, when I can locate such I do; anyway, this carton, when inspected, turns out to bear a truly disturbing pair of dates on the top of the carton. The initial date - date of production, mentions June, the year 2013; the expiry date is December of this year. We looked at one another, musing, and agreed that this is not the sort of organic farmers' market produce that I would normally buy when home in the west. Still, needs must, and small exquisite pleasures are to be cherished. And shared.
