A Relationship with Coffee

I associate the smell of a coffee bean with my dad.  Ever since I can remember, he's been drinking coffee, whether at his office when I visited him as a kid, on road trips in a thermos, and now, when I visit home.  As a child, I did not understand the relationship he had with coffee.  The bitterness of the drink did not appeal to me at all.  During college I became astonished when my younger sister insisted on having a cup of coffee in the morning.  Surely the caffeine would stunt her growth!  (Never mind the fact that she is simply a petite person...coffee-drinking would most certainly lead to shrinking!)  My personal relationship with coffee began in graduate school, when I would drink a cup after a long night of studying.  As I would sip my cup (heavily laiden with sugar, mind you), I romantically associated myself with a stereotype of graduate school: the hard-working student consuming pot after pot of coffee in between cigarettes, working feverishly on a dissertation or thesis into the wee hours of the morning.  Hardly.  Never mind I don't smoke.  Instead, I was a complete weakling.  One cup of coffee would send me on such a hyper spin that my friends expliciately forbade me having a cup before any class presentation.  Apparently, I would platter on a-mile-a-minute with the elixar of coffee-supplied caffeine coursing through my veins, making absolutely no sense to anyone but myself.  And, perhaps, the instructors, for they never seemed to dock me points from my grade.

As an adult, I drank coffee to socialize.  Initially, I drank mochas.  I could not stand the sharp taste of a coffee bean without chocolate and milk.  Mexican mochas were my favorite form of decadence; they had a dash of cayenne pepper for a little fire.  A daily mocha became a habit in the professional workspace.  Towards the end of the month, when things were getting a little tight before payday, I would scrounge for change to purchase my own personal form of heroin.  The day just couldn't seem to get started without my coffee fix.  Plus, a hefty employee discount at the coffee bar did nothing to curb my habit.

My relationship with coffee is much more ritualistic, now.  I no longer drink lattes.  For one thing, I cannot afford them.  It is more than that, however.  Lattes and mochas seem watered down, and I am unable to taste the acidic flavor of the coffee bean.  The act of drinking coffee is becoming something much more personal for me.  I am in control of the preparation.  First, I journey to the store to purchase my beans.  It use to be that I only purchased a single roast.  More recently I am more experiemental, and mix my roasts.  The bag I have at home right now is a lovely mixture between a nutty medium roast and a smooth dark roast.  Then I grind the bean.  I have my own personal grinder at home, and sometimes use the device, but right now I am on a grind-it-at-the-store kick because I can make the grind coarser, which works well with my French press. 

The act of making the coffee in the morning is another ritual.  I use to be able to completely empty my 8-cup press on my own.  Recently, as my running increases, I've noticed that I only need one, perhaps two, mugs of coffee to be satisfied.  Any more than that, and the caffeine and acid wreaks havoc on my stomach.  I return from my run, and place a teapot of hot water on the stove to heat right before I jump in the shower.  When I emerge from the shower, I measure my grounds into my French press.  (Do not let anyone tell you that all presses are made the same.  This is not true.  A little over a year ago, I had the misfortune to break the beaker to my press and tear the screen all in one go.  In an effort to save a little money, I purchased a store brand press.  What a disaster.  The screen let little grounds of coffee float through, and the taste was inferior.  After a week of suffering, I caved and purchased my lovely 8-cup Bodum French press that sits on my counter today.)  After a judicious stir, I let the coffee do it's thing.  Different modes of seeping coffee does create different tastes.  Drip coffee is different from espresso.  When I am backpacking, I boil the grounds in a pot, and strain it through a screen into my cup.  This produces an invigorating brew that I compare to the "cowboy" coffee Louis L'Amour wrote about in his novels.  French press coffee is by far my favorite.  It results in a full-bodied flavour that I crave.  When the coffee is ready, I perform the most important part of my ritual: choosing my coffee mug for the day.  I deliberate over which coffee mug to use the same way some people ponder their outfit for the day.  I sincerely believe that the coffee mug I choose to use sets a tone for my day.  Each of my mugs are cherished thrift store finds, and each one has a story.  One I found during my first camping trip after graduate school in a thrift shop in Whitefish, Montana.  Another one I purchased at the Goodwill in Billings, Montana.  I have a beautiful Mexican mug I found in Fort Collins, Colorado.  And a mug from home that I declared as "mine" for tea in my childhood.  I have about a dozen mugs to choose from, and my choice means a great deal to me.  It is something I take very seriously.  After making my choice, I pour in a bit of sugar, a dash of half and half (I only drink coffee straight when camping, but I believe this, too, will evolve), and pour my steaming brew over the mix.  Relishing the steam, smell, and taste, as well as the feel of my chosen mug in my hand, is the only way to truly start my day.