I only started drinking coffee in college. We didn't grow up with Starbucks on every corner. Drinking it in high school would have been weird. Coffee was still the nasty Folgers that only "old" people drink. My college had a coffee shop, with a myriad of flavors and creams-- you couldn't even tell it was coffee! and thus, the love for this hot, sweet, comforting beverage began. The love, and the necessity of something that would keep our eyelids pried open.
My best friend had a small, four-cup pot for the dorm. I remember sitting on her floor, Sunday afternoons, drinking Gevalia coffee and dunking vanilla wafers. We each had textbooks open, studying for some exam. She was a biology/chemistry major, so her studying was filled with-- well, chemicals and anatomy and calculations. I was a Psychology/English major, so mine was filled with theories, dysfunctions, and literature. We listened to Enya and tried not to fall asleep. I think I usually did. We laughed a lot, and happened to study a little.
How do you like your coffee? I'm in the mood to give away my current favorite from Trader Joe's. (If you prefer, I'll send a gift card so you can get your own coffee). Just leave me a comment below.
"She's sleeping," our father announced gruffly, making his way into the kitchen. He must have gone out already; the paper was unfolded, a mug of coffee gone cold beside it. He lifted the front section as Cordy deftly slipped a plate onto the table, golden omelet flecked green and white with onions and peppers from the garden. "Thank you," he said, looking at her and then back at the plate, pondering the mystery of how the girl and the meal were connected.
"You're welcome," Cordy said. She poured and cooked another omelet, eased it onto her plate, and joined him at the table. Our father hid behind the paper, but she heard the sounds of his silverware, the grimacing swallow as he drank his coffee, bitter and black.
As a child, Bean had developed a tremendous aversion to the sound of chewing. At the breakfast table, faced with the melodious crunching of our entire family's teeth working against their cereal, she would grow furiouser and furiouser until she stood and stomped off to eat elsewhere, in peace. Cordy had never been bothered like this. She loved the symphonic harmony of people eating, the gentle sigh of pleasure at the meeting of taste and bud, the percussive notes of cutlery.
"I really like working at the coffee shop," she said, apropos of nothing. Our father lowered the paper, brows down, and stared at our sister. "I was just thinking, I love all the sounds. Like the steamer, and the bell on the door, and the conversations. I can work, and I can just listen to all those sounds around me, and it's kind of comforting, you know?"
|Here I am, ready to pour your coffee! circa 1979|
(Find The Weird Sisters here.)
Tell me about a coffee memory you have!
(Random drawing on 10/1; US and Canada)
By the way, I'm with Bean-- I HATE the sounds of chewing! :0)