Oh, if it were only true. Some time ago, I wrote a blog about packaging and recycling. I was interested in how companies try to convince us that they care about saving the planet. Now, I’m focused on how we get sold a bunch of stuff we don’t need.

About seven hundred years ago, Lillian and I lived in the small town of Plattsmouth, Nebraska. The town is outside of Omaha and close enough to what was then the headquarters for the Strategic Air Command. Close because it was the only place Lillian and I could afford a house, and every newly minted 2nd lieutenant needed to buy into the American dream. As I recall, the house was plenty warm in the cold Nebraska winters and equally warm in the hot and humid Nebraska summers.

So, we settled into our split-level castle, migrating with the seasons, from the main floor in the winter to the basement in the summer. As I drove off every morning in our only car for my typical twelve-hour days, Lillian and Jennifer remained landlocked in our slice of American pie.

If I left well before five a.m., I could stop at the Hillside Café for a cup of coffee and a plate of scrapple and biscuits. The sea of butter bars (2nd lieutenants) crawling north on Hwy 34 seemed endless, contrasted by the parade of farm combines going south and hogging the highway, destined to work the soybean and feed corn fields. Nebraska and the other farm States fed our nation’s bottomless desire for cheap, unhealthy food. As I passed over the Platte River, off to the right was an old rendering plant, and just north of the yard was a new development of track homes, too expensive for us, butter bars but just right for the Major Dickerson’s of the world.

How did the developer of the homes convince their would-be buyers that the smell of dead horses and cows was just a natural by-product of living in our nation’s heartland? Why did I become such a coffee snob when the Hillside Café served perfectly good Yuban? Yuban, the world’s cheapest coffee with more chicory than coffee beans?

Did you know chicory was introduced into coffee in New Orleans during the Civil War? Chicory root has the texture and aroma of coffee but, sadly, not the flavor. During the Union blockade, the clever and creative inhabitants of the low country used it to extend their precious supply of brown gold.

Today, the best coffees come in non-recyclable bags: “Coffee packaging is often made of aluminum foil, multi-layer composite film, or other materials. The packaging is designed to protect coffee from oxygen, moisture, and UV rays, which can cause it to oxidize and lose freshness. To help keep coffee fresh, packaging may include features like one-way valves, vacuum sealing, or nitrogen flushing.” (as told to me by my AI friend).

Thanks a lot, pretentious coffee companies. Now, we all get an hour in the morning to complain about how other people are wasteful as we keep our caffeine in a bag worthy of astronauts. Perhaps during the zombie apocalypse and after the Mayans return, the survivors can find a use for those coffee bags that litter the empty shell that used to be our planet.

“Need another cup, dear? Another cup will cheer you up.”

Lillian finds Starbucks’s coffee tastes like an old army boot soaked in dishwater and slowly roasted over a cub scout campfire fueled by cow dung. I used to enjoy the brand, but now, with this visual in mind, I’ve seen the error of my ways.

Today, I prefer Peet’s coffee, specifically Major Dickerson’s Blend. According to the “Tasting Notes” on their Mayan-Zombie bag, Peet’s coffee is flavorful, robust, and full-bodied. No wonder I like Peet’s coffee—it’s just like me.

So, who the hell is Major Dickerson? According to the bag, Alfred Peet was “renowned for achieving extraordinary depth through his blends (of coffee).” Key Dickerson was a friend and retired Army sergeant.

Sergeant Dickerson was promoted to major, and I, too, was promoted from Starbucks.

“Making sows’ ears from silk purses – one story at a time.