I pay my respect to coffee every morning by drinking it with much love and support. I happily spend my money on coffee because it never fails to bring me enjoyment. It never fails to brighten my morning. It never disappoints. I’m not picky; I can buy or make my own coffee. I’ll drink either type with the same gusto.
I drank my first cup at about eight years old. No lie. It’s been a long love affair since. Admittedly, a great deal of the initial allure was that I simply wanted to sit at the same table that my mom and aunts were at and listen to them gossip about whatever it was they gossiped about. When there were vanilla or chocolate cream-filled cookies to dip in my cup, bliss ensued. Even though at the time I sort of believed the warnings they’d shoot my way that coffee was “going to stunt my growth,” I didn’t care. I loved the coffee experience then, and I love it now.
I love the allure of coffee’s aroma. The smell that rockets out of the can and blasts me in the nose is intense beauty. The odor that coffee creates as it’s brewing in the machine is brilliance. That coffee can fill rooms of my house with sweet, sweet love isn’t lost on me.
I love the sounds of coffee nearly as much. Listening to coffee beans grind isn’t distracting; it’s angels singing. Listening to the pitter pat of individual drops adding to the pot’s collective is a chorus singing gospel. The swirling, chugging sound that coffee makes as it’s entering the mug is my favorite of all. I love picking out the mug I’m going to drink from. I love the act of adding cream and sugar. I love the “tinks” and “clinks” of the spoon banging against the mug’s sides.
The first sip of coffee is always utopia. The hesitation experienced from not knowing if the liquid will be too hot for the lips and tongue never grows old. I love coffee’s aftertaste, and I even love the little puddle the last remnants make at the bottom of the cup.
On Sunday mornings growing up, I loved making coffee for my mom and waiting for her to tell me how it tasted. In college, coffee united my friends and I around a table where we’d discuss life between sips and draws from cheap cigarettes. On camping trips, I’d argue that coffee is the one thing you can count on that will be truly great about the coming day. On Sunday golfing mornings, coffee is my fuel. During desserts, cake isn’t cake without coffee to wash it down. And don’t get me started with donuts, pancakes, French toast, or scrambled eggs.
I love knowing how people “take” their coffee. (Cream and sugar for me, thank you.) I love that some people only drink coffee from the same mug. I love that some people drink coffee all day long. I love that people make their own coffee at work instead of drinking what some schmoo concocts. (I refuse to drink my company’s coffee unless absolutely mandatory. Coffee is not meant to be chewed.) I love that I can buy a cup of coffee from the same gas station every weekday morning and each and every person behind the counter not only knows my name, but expects me to present my coffee card to get my deserved discount. If I don’t, they ask for it. Hell, I even love the movie "Coffee & Cigarettes."
Much respect, coffee. You’ve been a good friend.
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