Like so many people, I have vices. This little story of mine is only about one. Perhaps the most important vice I have. Coffee. Not just any coffee, but the perfect cup of coffee.
I can’t remember how old I was when I first started drinking coffee, but it has been quite some time now since I took my first sip. The habit started when I was a small girl stealing a sip from my parent’s cup here and there. Of course, when you ask for a cup of coffee from your parents, they always tell you no.
“How come?” I never, even to this day, take a no at face value.
Because I said so, didn’t work on me and I think the adults in my life knew that.
Because it will stunt your growth!
I took a gamble, and when no one was looking, I pinched a sip. Lucky me, my growth was that of a normal kid.
My Grandma Betty was my cohort. Grandma had pretty things including coffee cups made from delicate china with matching saucers. Her bright red lipstick made wonderful art work on the rims of her cups. She always let me drink coffee, I had to convince her that not only was I old enough but my parents let me drink it all the time at home. We drank our coffee black together in our fancy coffee cups, always piping hot.
When I was just out of high school, I had a full-time job working with women twice my age. They drank their coffee from white Styrofoam cups with loads of sugar and powdered cream. When in Rome….
Actually, I hated the way my teeth felt and it made my breath smell rank, especially after having a cigarette break. I decided to cut the sugar.
Somewhere along the line I was introduced to real coffee creamer. The kind that pours from a cardboard container and looks like milk. It was a whole new experience and the gate-way to more flavorful coffee obsession.
I quickly discovered coffee could be laced with all sorts of substances. Why stop with cream from a carton? There was a plethora of colorful bottles from around the world, each with their own snappy deliciousness. My all-time treat was a mocha latte with a shot of orange, whipped cream and chocolate syrup drizzled over the top. Even better on ice during those hot summer days.
Like all bad habits, it came at a price. I was not fitting into my jeans and my wallet was getting thin. Milk became my morning cups new best friend.
For years I would go over every Saturday morning and have breakfast with my parents. My dad and I would fight over the crossword (more on this at a later time) and he and I would drink pot after pot of coffee.
My dad is no nonsense when it comes to coffee. He has the basic twelve cup brewer and uses name brand coffee from a blue can. I have memories of that blue can as far back to the time when I used to make coffee for his thermos. Plus, he never added cream.
My dad made a great pot of coffee. It was like he wielded some magic powers, a sorcerer of ground beans. If he were a super hero it would be something like, “Captain Coffee”, destroyer of morning blues. I would marvel how well his coffee tasted, compared to the expensive freshly ground beans I used every morning at my place.
Yes, I may have given up all the fancy accessories one could have with their morning joe, but I wasn’t weaned from the beans that came in a foil bag just yet.
I remembered a stint of buying coffee in the red can from the store. I was, after all, a stay-at-home mom and money was tight. I mean, the coffee was ok, in the way boxed wine is ok. My husband, who loves me to the moon and back, informed me it would be fine to buy coffee beans for grinding, if I wasn’t going to drink three pots a day. Trust me, it was a long thought process to decide what was more important, drinking coffee all day with mediocre beans or two and a half pots of coffee with stellar grind? Stellar it was.
Flash forward, today. My beloved cups of morning glory, with rainforest alliance beans, that I ground at home came to a Covid halt when I had to start shopping curb side pick-up. The bulk department was temporarily closed. I panicked because I knew of no other great tasting bean that would or could replace the silky delight, I had downed for the last two decades.
Then I remembered. My dad makes the best coffee in the world. I ordered a blue can for my next pick-up. The first morning, with my thirty-ounce can, I peeled off the foil and all the memories from those long-ago Saturdays with my dad came flooding back. The sound of gurgles as the coffee pot came to life, mixed with the whirls of mist which carried the exact same smell as my dad’s kitchen was euphoric.
I went to my china hutch and pulled out a fancy cup with matching saucer. Donned some red lipstick, wiped out the dust bunnies and delicately placed it next to the pot anticipating the pour. When the last coo was heard, I poured a cup and like a delicate bird in hand, I walked over to the kitchen table and sat it down. I too sat and then lifted the coffee up and took in the aroma. My husband came in the kitchen at the same time and asked if I wanted the creamer from the fridge?
“No,” I said, taking my first sip, thinking back to all those Saturday mornings at my dad’s and how, I really am Art’s daughter. “This is the perfect cup of coffee.”
Chris Writes 