Instant coffee

I used to have a great and hulking disrespect for instant coffee, which included instant-coffee-users in its raging scope. It ranked up there in my mind with those sad buckets of Folgers that were the staple of church kitchens everywhere in the 90s - the stuff that could’ve been a mix of cardboard and sawdust. You can’t even call it coffee; not really.

I am a self-identified coffee snob, and sometimes even an identified-by-others coffee snob. I have extremely definite opinions on what makes a “good coffee,” be it pourover, stovetop, French press (or cafetière, as my adopted homeland calls it), espresso… and don’t even get me started on milk.
(I wrote an essay once about how the Flat White can and should be defined. Maybe I’ll share it here someday.)

I am, however, not picky. I’ll drink just about anything, eat just about anything (certain recently developed allergies notwithstanding). I was raised to clear my plate without complaint, and to be mindful of waste to the point of hyper-fixation, so I am intimately familiar with the stoic consumption of anything that’s actually edible. Add to this that out on tour, you’re subject to the whims of the universe, and google as you may for a good ol’ cup o’ Joe, there are only so many $8 lattes you can disgustedly bin (the answer is one) before you desperately admit you just need a little caffeine. Even when worst comes to worst, you need your hit. So maybe it’s because I’ve had some truly terrible brews over the years. Maybe it’s because I have a soft spot in my heart for diner coffee. However it came to pass, somehow, quietly, that weird brown dust has wormed its way into my heart.

I blame my housemate, Emily, entirely; she got me hooked on instant decaf for a nice little afternoon treat (“it’s almost like hot chocolate!” I said delightedly to her nodding assent), and from there I slowly slid into the joy of a lazy coffee. Do you know how blissful it is to just stir up a little mug of water and magic powder and get the drink you were hoping for? I didn’t. I ridiculed it, in fact.
But now? I’m a convert.

Don’t get me wrong - I still heartily enjoy and appreciate a well-brewed cafetière, pourover, latte and the like. In fact, we just had some truly heavenly coffee at a roastery in Llanberis (Ceirios Coffee - uff da, what a dream) and we live within spitting distance of my favourite coffee place in Liverpool, Sunday. I love making an intentional carafe for my officemates. But a latte every day is no way for my wallet to live a satisfied & healthy life, even if my tummy & tastebuds would approve. And the time isn’t always available to me to make slow coffee.

So. Especially for this period of my life, where I spend an inordinate amount of time keeping an eye on a wonderful wobbly toddler, something quick and easy is the kind of caffeine break I need. Thanks, instant coffee, for being actually-pretty-okay.

Honestly, it’s fine. Just have a cup already and get over yourself.

Typing with one hand

Motherhood is both completely like and nothing like I thought it would be. One way in which it has surprised me is a newfound reliance on autocorrect to make sure my i’s are capitalised.

Seeing my brother’s face in my child is a surprise as well; one that hits my heart in the most bittersweet way, since his uncle resides an ocean and a continent away.

The interrupted sleep is also much more manageable than I expected; or at least I often think it is, until I fall to absolute pieces looking in the vegetable drawer for something, anything that’s edible, yet being confronted instead with the fact that I really should’ve stopped somewhere for groceries on my way home from work. Enter despair, invited to the party (and the pantry) by my bosom buddy, sleep deprivation.

It’s almost comical how regularly I field the question, “is he sleeping much?” I’ve perfected my deadpan frown, out of necessity. For people without babies, or even people with babies, it often seems there’s not much to speak to a new mother about until this vital and pressing question is addressed. And I suppose, given the absolute mind-mangling that occurs from constant nocturnal interruption, the capacity for fielding questions is significantly reduced when you have a small babe in tow. At leat social conventions help make these interchanges manageable by keeping things simple.

The end of something, the beginning of something

Doors close, windows open; every end is a beginning; etc.

I do intend, however, to make a firm end of some things.

I’ve just deleted the band webpage. We effectively dissolved in mid-2019, when I asked my guitarist for a divorce. Y’know. Typical band stuff. But I held on to the band name (which I still adore), the band insta, the band webpage, with the hope that someday I’d make more music under the moniker I felt I’d built with such intention and clarity.

Since releasing our album (finished mid-2019, released early 2020), I’ve recorded bits and pieces of music with Campbell. I’ve done a few things on my own, all unreleased. I’ve played some jazz about town. I’ve toured all over the states, the UK & Ireland, and some of Europe on other peoples’ music. But I’ve struggled with even the initial steps of forming a band. Always, in the back of my mind, hung Punch The Sun and the efforts I made around it… not wanting to close a door and label a failure a failure. Because in many ways it really wasn’t. But it did end. And I have been extremely reluctant to let it die.

It’s been over seven years since we played a show. That’s nearly as long as I lived in New York, for goodness’ sake. And my life now is, in so many ways, diametrically different to how it was in “my New York era.” (what a pompous way to describe that time.)
There are plenty of things I loved about that life. I loved having a band. I loved playing with Campbell, especially. I loved my songwriting community. I loved playing shitty little gigs in shitty little pubs. But I didn’t love the day job in a field I could care less about (though I do miss the long walks to work in the morning; primo songwriting time, tbh). I didn’t love the vast amounts of time I spent in work. I don’t miss the relationship I was in. I don’t miss the smell of pee, or of hot garbage in the summer.
But the things I loved have the fog of nostalgia around them. I’m grateful I had those experiences, but I don’t actively miss New York. These days, my life is just different. Better in a lot of ways. I feel more in control of my destiny, on my good days.

Now I’m writing with a sleepy, just-woken baby in my lap. When I got reminders this summer that my squarespace was going to renew, I thought “maybe it’s time to let that die.” I got a notification that my credit card number was out of date and that my website would get canceled. Perfect, I thought. But then the payment went through, because the internet has ways of keeping things going even when you get a new credit card number. So I’ve had to take intentional action (which I suppose is a type of gift) and close the website down myself. But I’ve got the page until July 15th of 2027, so in the meantime, let’s have a blog that will be around for the better part of a year, and then disappear into nothingness once my subscription lapses. Here today, gone in… 11 months or so.

Goodbye, Punch The Sun. Hello, whatever comes next. I don’t want to pin too much hope on the future just yet; I want to sit with this goodbye for now, and let the chapter close. The next thing will come in its own time. So for now, fare thee well, you band that I loved. Pass on in peaceful memory.