As a kid, our family lived with Dad’s father. Life was a steady routine. Every day before sun-up, Grandfather would go to the basement and bang around with the boiler. An old coal thing. He resisted change. Grandpa said coal produced intense heat, and his gravity boiler was a superior design because it functioned without electricity. All lost upon a seven-year old.
I would get up when the 6:05 pulled into town, as she gently tooted her horn at a highway crossing. One morning, she didn’t. Neither were trucks heard on a highway half mile away. In our kitchen, a percolator bubbled on his gas range. Beyond the windows, nothing but white. Snow as far as the eye could see. Any shrub under four feet was hidden.
“No school today, Jimmy. All factories are closed. Train not running. Highway blocked.” His world paused because power lines into our valley collapsed under almost five feet of snow.
His house was warm; grownups had their coffee; I played games for three days. A hundred times a day Grandfather extolled the virtues of a home which can survive without electricity. Reliance on fancy kitchen gadgets signaled a return to Roman idolatry, it seemed.
A dozen years ago Grandpa’s coffee maker came into my possession. I kept it for nostalgia only, relying instead on my Technivorm. But while visiting, Jack spied the distinctive Blue Cornflower percolator, and insisted we brew a pot. He demonstrated, I learned. And became a believer.
Over 750 million items of CorningWare have been produced since S. Donald Stookey discovered Pyroceram. Next time you poke around a garage sale, look for Joseph Baum’s Cornflower design. Make an offer on a vintage percolator. You’ll be set when snowstorms or massive solar flares shut down the power grid. ◊◊◊. When you want to impress a date. Whenever a superior cup of coffee is desired or required.