Coffee Ruminations

I woke up late this morning to sunlight streaming through my window. I was tired in a pleasant sort of way, stretched out and snug in a mess of blankets. I had been sick the night before and taken a few NyQuil; consequently, my brain was in a haze this morning. That was fine by me – I have the day off and need to do nothing but laze in bed or write or drink coffee or all three.

I am at Grammy’s desk now, with none of my candles lit for once because the aroma of coffee is drifting all around my head. I drink it, black, from this big mug that my grandmother, Amah, gifted to me in her half-hearted attempt to rid herself of unnecessary knick-knacks. Despite having no silly graphics or sayings printed on it, it is my favorite. There is something poetic about the way it fills up – I cannot tell you what, exactly, that is. Not yet, anyway.

My coffee obsession is going to be a problem for me someday, I am sure. I drink coffee every day now, even at the tender age of fourteen, sometimes twice. Coffee is no cheap thing, either, and as I have already settled on being an artist I must plan on being mostly destitute in my adult years. Perhaps it is time I acquaint myself with instant coffee – oh, the horrors. At the very least I have not yet acquired my father’s picky taste for the stuff. Not very much, anyway. (Though even I have my limits – I once tasted the coffee at Pizza Ranch and I practically choked.)

Since I am in a storytelling mood I will tell you about my history with coffee, and embellish since it, like most of my life, is not very intriguing.

It began on a vacation when I was, say, seven or eight. We were on a small island in Michigan. Mackinac Island was its name, I think. Anyway, we were staying in the sort of Motel that is striving desperately to be a Hotel, but not quite there yet. They had a little free coffee stand in the lobby and my father decided to give it a shot. Not for himself, of course (remember what I said about him being picky?), but for his little daughter. Start them young, I guess.

Anyway, he pulled me over as we waited for our bus to arrive and showed me how the little machine worked. When the coffee was ready, he added a substantial amount of cream and sugar, until a little mountain of empty sugar packets and cream cups had risen. Here our bus arrived, and I, holding my little cup, climbed aboard. We took our seats. In the moment of truth, I raised the paper cup to my lips, all full of expectations. This was the elixir of artists, of writers, of the working class and adults and, most importantly, my daddy. How could it be anything but the sweetest, most wonderful nectar to ever touch human lips? (I was later disillusioned in the same way with wine.)

The coffee touched my tongue; I made a face, choked it down, shook my head vigorously and handed it back to my father. I had never tasted anything that was bitter like that. I had eaten crab apples in hopes that they would taste like actual apples, but smaller and therefore sweeter; I had eaten “sweet pickles” only to find out they were sour. But I had never been tricked like this. Coffee was a new kind of bitter. I did not care for it at all.

But then, years later, when I was around ten or eleven, I was introduced to the mocha. Coffee, after betraying me, was re-attempting its courtship and having more success the second time around. My dad bought a bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup and that seemed to do the trick. At this point I was overly enamored with the idea of adulthood (a bi-product of discovering the downsides of childhood), and coffee, naturally, came with that. I was determined to conquer it.

I progressed gradually from mochas to sweet lattes to sweet lattes with slightly more coffee than milk and sugar. Eventually I victoriously came to unsweetened lattes and sort of stalled out. This was mostly fine by me – I had discovered the art of frothing the milk, as Amah had shown me (she had stalled out at sweetened lattes), and something about that cloud of milk floating above my coffee had me under a spell.

It was about two years later, when I had reached the mature state of teenagerdom (mature. Ha.), that I found myself suddenly alone at church with no one to take me home. My parents had become preoccupied with some business, and therefore naturally took advantage of the generosity of my youth group leaders. Nate and Rachel were not only convinced to give me a ride but also to supply me with lunch. They insisted I choose the restaurant at which we would dine. At the time I was on a bit of an Ethiopian cuisine kick. I picked the nearest restaurant selling this food and we had a lovely lunch of many dishes whose names I could not pronounce and the time and cannot remember now.

At the end of the meal Nate decided to have some coffee to settle his stomach and asked if I would like to partake. I, naturally, agreed, partially out of a desire to impress my adult friends, partially out of curiosity. I’m not sure if I was aware that Ethiopian coffee is some of the most powerful stuff out there. Of course, coffee was, or so the tale goes, discovered in Ethiopia (specifically by a goat).

The waitress brought out the tray with a piping-hot kettle, a bowl of sugar, two small cups, and some incense. The mix of aromas was intoxicating, as you can imagine. Nate poured us both a cup. Rachel passed – she also stalled out at sweetened coffee. We mixed in a spoonful of sugar, as is the Ethiopian tradition. It was powerful, alright, but also thick and smooth like nothing I had tasted before. It was sweet –almost syrupy– and coursed through me in a somewhat alcoholic fashion. I sipped it eagerly, then poured myself another cup. In a moment of unwarranted boldness, I skipped over the sugar and took a straight sip of traditional black Ethiopian coffee.

And people say my life isn’t thrilling.

It was like the moment Peter Parker is bitten by the radioactive spider. After that moment, I was changed. I didn’t drink lattes again, practically ever. I was a black coffee girl – or should I say, woman.

No, I really shouldn’t.

It was a long drive to school in the mornings – over thirty minutes – so I would bring a tall thermos of coffee on the ride because I didn’t have time to drink it at home. I’d put on my new long coat and stand there in the living room filling up my cup with undoctored coffee straight from the pot. My mother looked over at me once and said sadly, “Look at her, all grown up.” I enjoyed that.

In reality, coffee is a status symbol. In different forms it conveys different messages. A Starbucks drink that is really more sugar than coffee tells of upper-middle class splurging. A latte from caffea, of the sort of woke nerd who wears scarves and beanies indoors. And a cup of plain black joe…

Well, for me, it was a symbol of all I craved to be. Grown up. Artistic. Hardworking. A person who needs the bitter, powerful stuff of drink to combat the bitter, powerful stuff of life.

Now, though, I mostly like the taste. I like curling up in the red armchair, looking out the window and sipping it slowly. I like that state of stillness that coffee seems to require: warmth, comfort, and just the joy of becoming mellow. Pickling in your own thoughts before the caffeine hits and it’s go time.

Anyway, the NyQuil is hitting hard now. My head feels as though it is stuffed with cotton; my limbs are leaden and floppy. So I might just get myself a cup of coffee with that cloud of frothed milk and just ruminate for a while.