“Smuckers Buys Bustelo”
The first thing I noticed, when we walked into Bruno’s, was the long, dark bar which stood in front of a classic Italian looking, espresso machine. Thanks to Chris and Sharon, we have finally had a perfect cup of coffee, in Cleveland, Ohio. Days later, Kate and I are still talking about the smooth, yet strong flavor, brought about by the delectable marriage of finely roasted and ground coffee, water, and sugar.
We find ourselves in Cleveland, for an unexpected and extended stay. Charlotte Scarcella has been at the Cleveland Clinic for more than a month, finally diagnosed with a dime size hole in her abdomen, from which air was escaping into her thoracic cavity and most seriously, into her pericardium (the sack like membrane which incases the heart). She has undergone countless procedures and a massive surgery, and is still fighting; though we finally feel she has succeeded in winning this battle, nevertheless we are in Ohio.
Somewhere in the haze of my first few days in Cleveland, I read that the quintessential Ohio Company, J.M. Smucker, of Orrville, has bought the quintessential Cuban-American Company, Rowland Coffee Roasters Inc., of Miami, Florida. Rowland Coffee Roasters make Café Bustelo and Café Pilon, which are espresso roast used for Cuban Coffee; J.M. Smucker is of course known for their jam, as well as Folgers coffee and other brands.
For some reason, I find this business transaction rather personal and disturbing; perhaps it is because I am in Ohio, missing my café Bustelo which is normally a prominent part of my morning. I do not drink American coffee; I do not see the point. I like my strong espresso, which gets right to the point both in flavor and in magnitude. Is it that I cannot imagine berry farmers from Ohio, whose jam I do love, being in charge of my Cuban coffee? Or is it my irritation in knowing that Smucker will move Bustelo’s operations out of Miami, as I think of the loss of jobs for my current home state? I also wonder if Louisiana is the proper caretaker of my Cuban coffee?
The news of the buy-out seems to fade rather quickly, but I continue to ponder the marriage. I cannot help but think of my Cuban father who quite literally shipped cases of Bustelo to Hawaii, when we moved there in the 1970’s, to ensure that he would have his morning espresso; and of my Ohioan Mother, who adores Smucker’s jam, and who on a road trip through the state, many years ago, I took to Orville, for no other reason than it was home to Smucker.
Who would have imagined such a union, even a decade ago? Have my worlds collided? No, this business between these two companies has nothing to do with me, except that I am in Ohio, and feeling the clash of my contrasting roots.
Kate and I were both born in Ohio, she in Cleveland and I in Columbus, at The Ohio State University – she thinks that is important to add the The. As a child, I lived in Cleveland, for a while, and I generally have affectionate memories of the city; it was the last place we lived before heading west. Though The Clinic, (it must be an Ohio thing those The’s) has dominated much of our days, we have nevertheless found time for family and friends, and for Ohio, herself.
We do not often come to Ohio; it is not on one of our frequently traveled paths, so there is much for me to learn, and oddly for Kate to re-learn. When we had ventured to Ohio, in 2007, for Chris and Sharon’s wedding, I spent a great deal of time mocking Kate, for constantly being lost in her home town. By and large she now knows where she is going, and I too seem to have mastered the highways and byways of Cleveland.
The predictable and obligatory pilgrimages are all made – we know this process well, having ventured to the Winslow’s and Delano’s of my childhood, on previous road trips, where we stop to find old houses, schools, churches, and places where our memories are engaged and housed. Yet, no matter how much at home we try to make ourselves, we are missing our morning Cuban coffee – yes, it is our coffee. Something I never thought would happen, Kate a former diehard fan of Maxwell House, has actually come over to the Bustelo side – I credit South Florida as much as any effort on my part.
We walk through the Metroparks of Cleveland, drive down the 90, and make our way to picnic and patio tables laden with family, friends, and food, engaged in the moment and enjoying the time spent; all along wondering about our relationship to this place. I marvel at how many people I have encountered here who are certain they are home. I have always envied people who know where they belong, people who know where home is and how to be in that place which they call home. I am glad to know Cleveland and make her mine, but my existential angst is diverted by Kate’s genuine sadness when she learns that The Executive Club, where she once played racquetball, has closed. In the car, approaching the building, she had quickly run the lines she would speak to the gatekeeper that she might be allowed a glimpse at her glory day field, but it is of no use. I decide this place and this time are about her. I step back trying to understand if, as I have been accused, I took her away from her home. Does she belong here?
I cannot answer for her, and am not sure she is even asking the question. I know she is happy to reconnect with this place, but when asked about home – she always says the same thing – home is where I am.
I feel connected to Ohio, perhaps more so than I do to Florida, where I have spent more time. But a part of me thinks of California as home, and also Maine. I reflect on someone saying, in the last few weeks, that they had never been in Texas, and I wondered how that was possible. I do feel connected to Ohio, but my connection extends the breath of this nation and in so many ways the world.
The American dream, for the immigrant, is to find a home in America where they are accepted and respected; and one could certainly argue that this Cuban immigrant company, being purchased by a stalwart Mid-Western institution is the ultimate sign of acceptance in America. So maybe it is okay for Bustelo to become an Ohioan, but it must not lose its’ Cuban flavor; and maybe Kate is right, home is where we are together – period. That is all for now.
