If the penny stock portfolio ever goes way up instead of way down, I would love to mess with a Clover. Alas, a pipe dream. But there are two coffee shops within driving distance that have Clovers, so all is not lost.

But context is enormous. And ritual. I recall a place where I would camp and hike just after the big thaw. Good grounds and spring water, over a white gas stove, in my old enamel coffee pot, and the the thing would erupt all over the second I turned my back. Cue the cursing. And then it would sit and settle, and I would pour a big black cup, and ... one very special morning ... stroll up the creek, the spring melt roiling over the rocks, and sit perfectly still on a boulder, watching a harlequin duck working the eddies with perfect ease and grace. That, my friends, is magic; that is the best cup of coffee I have ever shared.