PRACTICE
Write about coffee.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section.
And if you post, make sure to comment on a few posts by other Practitioners.
Photo by Lali Masriera
Here's my practice:
I look down into her cup of black coffee and am surprised when I see the little bits of oil on the surface. The oil is translucent orange though her coffee is the darkest brown and it's as if the oil were put into a blender and scrambled up because it doesn't hold together but jingles all on the surface like a thousand shaky bells. I want to drink it.
But it's not my cup and so instead I open my journal and scrawl the cup into my journal to meditate on later. Beside it I write, “The oil bubbles in the coffee,” but I spell coffee wrong. I set my journal down and look up to my friend who has been talking this whole time but I don't know if I've heard a word.
The next morning I open my journal and stare at the cup of coffee I drew there the day before. I'm surprised because it isn't just a drawing but instead I see the coffee, those orange bubble bells, the red hugeness of the cup, the yellow lighting from the coffee shop where we sat, and even glimpses of my friend.
I reach out to the cup and take a sip. It is lukewarm but I feel the heat on my lips and tongue from those little oil bells that are so delicious. I close my eyes and smell it in and it smells like bark on a cool spring day and the seven years of mornings since I started drinking coffee. It smells like incense brushed over an altar. I set the cup down.
My friend looks at me funny. “You just drank my coffee!” she says.
I smile and close my journal.
it’s just amazing…
I live in the south part of Georgia for a litttle time, where lives Armenian people immigrated here in XIX century, in 20s. so as I see they drink a lot of Turkish coffe. In addition Turkish people aren’t drinking so much… At school Teachers drink six – seven time during the lessons.
Everywhere I’m going as a guest they offer me three or four times 🙂 (fortunatelly I don’t like)
The home where I live, they drink overage 10 times during the day…
I think it’s just stupid habit of coffemania. I fell that I already hate this delicious thing of whole world.
Funny – you live in Georgia, I live in Georgia the state in the US. Funny the two of us are the first to post.
🙂 Replying so late is also kind of funny thing, I just find out my comment I have made two years ago. Happy for your comment from the same named place of the west part of the world :))
Actually, I like coffe, especially If I drink it sitting outside in early cold morning, felling how it refreshs me and makes the day energised with diverse ideas…
Hi Lela! Thanks so much for your comment. I think your kind of coffee is different than our coffee. When I spent a month in Turkey in 2009, I drank a lot of Turkish coffee and even more Turkish tea. But it’s a lot stronger and thicker than what we have in America. Kind of like coffee mud. I actually really liked it, but mostly because it was a novelty.
I don’t even call it Turkish coffee anymore. I just point and say “yeah…that’s the good stuff.”
It sounds like good coffee in a way because so many people like it. Why don’t you like it. Is it bitter tasting?
Coffee the dark brew. Bitter – sweet – Perhaps bitter sweet. My mind tends to wander when I’m sitting on the patio drinking my coffee. Hot coffee on a brisk day is the best thing ever. I can feel it warm my insides as it trickles down. As the minutes pass I feel the stimulation. My brain starts to wake up. Inevitably that leads to the wandering. But this is MY time, so I force my thoughts back to only the coffee and the morning. The patio door is open so not only do I smell it’s freshness when I lift the cup to my mouth, but the aroma from the freshly brewed pot drifts out to mix with the smell of dew and green and cold. It’s delightful to my senses.
I think about the coffee again and I think the journey into to my cup. This Brazilian blend has traveled a lot more than I have recently. How many hands did it go through to make it to me? The coffee pickers, the processors, the transportation. Man the amount of time and effort just so that I can have a cup of coffee. I guess I should be grateful. But too often I forget. Forget that I live in the modern world, where coffee and information and readily available no matter where in the world they originated.
It is certainly something to marvel at. That I can walk back into my kitchen and hold a coffee bean from thousands and thousands of miles away. And it still smells like coffee, despite all the places it’s been and all the people it has interacted with.
That’s funny. Coffee interacting with people. But that’s certainly what’s it’s doing right now as I consume it. Interacting with me. Most prominately with my physiology. The taste, the smell, the feel. And then there is what it does once it gets into my body. Wakes me up. Stimulates me. Makes me think better. Prepares me for the day. And If I’m a little slow in the bowels it helps there.
All that from a bean. That I get to keep in my kitchen, even though it’s a foreigner.
I love my coffee. I even love to think about coffee. In fact, I have a coffee date later today. I really love thinking about that. My coffee date with Joe. This is our 3rd coffee date. Some people may say we’re taking it slow, but I think it’s best. And I love to sit across the table from him and enjoy the smell of the coffehouse, the feel of the easy chair, and the easy gaze into his eyes. Yes, coffee is truly wonderful.
But here I am in the moment once again. Sipping this cup of coffee right now, even though I’m very close to holding a cold empty mug, there is still satisfaction on this moment. Joy in this moment. Gratitude in this moment. It’s beautiful that I have this time to myself. I get to enjoy my coffee as I enjoy the morning. It makes getting up feel good. It might seem silly to look forward to a cup of coffee in the morning. But I guess for me, it’s sort of a meditation. Meditation on my coffee and my life. I had some magnificent revelations in the morning – sipping my coffee.
So yes, I look forward to my coffee and I’m grateful. It’s the perfect time of the day. The perfect cup of coffee. And for a short time I even feel a little perfect myself.
So now I have to get up….and get another cup
You get a lot of mileage out of a cup of coffee. When you were talking about where the coffee had been before it got to you it reminded me of Thich Nhat Hanh, buddhist monk and author of lots of good books, wrote about being mindful of each bite we eat or sip we take, mindful of all that went into bringing what we are enjoying to us. Then you go into drinking coffee in the coffee shop and associate the coffee with things that are just connected to the coffee by your experience. That’s a good deal to get from a cup of coffee and a good deal to write in fifteen minutes. Thanks.
I like that you call coffee the foreigner in your kitchen.
I once wrote an ode to coffee. It started like this,
Coffee, Coffee how I love thee
You pick me up when I am down
And quickly turn my frown around
Oh, You mean the world to me.
As you can tell, I love coffee.
I love listening to the coffee machine percolate every morning. I love the grand finale gurgling sound my coffee machine makes the closer the coffee is to being ready. I love how the anticipation of my first cup of coffee before the sun rises is a little bit like waking up on Christmas morning. I can’t wait to jump out of bed and drink it all in, savoring every sip.
You love coffee? I couldn’t tell 🙂
Yes, waking up to your coffee maker alarm clock is one of the best feelings in the world. In college, my brother-in-law actually had a bread machine and would set it on a timer every night so he could have a similar wake up experience. Can you imagine having both? Fresh baked bread AND delicious coffee to wake up to?
I might need to put a bread machine on my Christmas list. 🙂
It sounds like you might have just had a cup or two. That was very lively, really caught the personality of coffee I think.
“the grand finale gurgling sound” – love it!
I french press now so I unfortunately don’t get that anymore but have a similar feel to the more quiet sssssskkkkink of the plunger going down.
There are two things I reach for every day as part of the rubbing-sticks-until-sparks-happen exercise that some call creativity.
One of those things is the 1930s-styled resonator guitar that hangs on my wall. Just a few guitar licks is all it takes to clear my mind and get those little wheels spinning. It’s an instrument whose design hasn’t changed in a very long time. Same goes for my method.
The other thing I reach for is coffee.
It’s time-honoured. Historically, it was the second most important export from the cradle of civilization (after people). Perfected by the Arab peoples in a period when Europe was dark. One of the great commodities of the world today. A very profitable cartel who’ve mastered the art of excuses to raise prices (because of fog in the mountains? Really?). An occupier of hipster neighbourhoods. Still easy to make. Hard to make well.
Today, since my supply has run dry of those annoying little pods that go into the machine to make my favourite tasty brew…I find myself kicking it old school with an old espresso pot.
Takes more time to do, but I’d almost forgotten how much tastier the results can be.
“Easy to make. Hard to make well.” That’s true of so many things, isn’t it?
Coffee is always part of my writing routine too.
I can see from what I’ve been reading that I just don’t appreciate my coffee like I should. I need to either change to tea or pay more attention to my coffee. I never make it well. I like “perfected by the Arab people when Europe was dark”.
Black love.
Coffee. The black nectar. My one true love. It’s a complex relationship we have you and me. If I don’t show you love, I’ll get none in return. If I don’t invest in you, I can’t reap what’s been sowed.
And so the courtship starts.
Down to the shop, past the wal-marts and malls. It’s the corner shop for me. The best little coffee house in Texas. I peruse and I smell, I enquire and taste. Until my choice is made, and I commit to a sort.
The price is commitment. My faith is my choice.
And now I head back home with my precious cargo under my arm. I can feel your magic spell as I arrive back home
Open door, throw keys on the table, pull open the bag, get blender, plug in, lift the bag to the rim, and watch the beans jump in.
Put lid back on, flick the switch and brace my ears. You’re loud. Very loud, you protest, but the sound soon subsides, and the cacophonic grinding mellows as the seconds pass, softer, softer, until your sound disappears and the blender motor is all that’s left.
That’s my cue.
The switch is flicked OFF. Silence once more. I lift the lid and lower my nose. The senses are sparked, and my love – once more – knows no bounds.
Our second love-toy is brought out. The percolator. The penultimate act, before full consummation.
The water, the filter, the black-powder gold. It’s all that’s needed.
I turn the machine on and I turn my back. No need to watch how your nectar is made. Some secrets are better left unseen. Like watching a woman putting her make up on.
I hear the last gurglings of our machine, and know that the time has come.
Get the cup, get the sugar, get the spoon. Pour. Slowly. And look. Marvel. And love
I reach for the radio. Jazz FM comes on board and my ears are soothed too – Miles Davis, with his Kind of Blue will be our relationship therapist this morning.
As I lift the cup to my lips the kitchen transforms. It’s now a boudoir, sole witness to the palate-based love-making that you and I share.
And the honeymoon starts, all over again.
Loved this description of the coffee-making ritual..and now I must go brew a pot 🙂
Very sensual … as it should be! Loved it!
That was wonderful. The analogy laced though the story of making a cup of coffee.
“No need to watch how your nectar is made. Some secrets are better left unseen. Like watching a woman putting her makeup on.” is a great line, and I like how you describe the way the blender is so full of racket to begin with and then calms down. You really do love your coffee don’t you?
Almost as much as the act this ritual alludes to!
My Grandmother set the cup in front of me on a morning when dampness off the lake seeped into every corner of our little brick house. Mornings like this brought a heaviness into to my chest, my asthmatic lungs compressing the air tightly inside. I tried hard not to panic, but each breath was a struggle.
“Here, honey,” she said, her soft southern accent drawing out the syllables of each word.
“You drink this good hot coffee. It’ll loosen you up in there.”
I put both hands around the thick white mug, poking three of my fingers through the stubby handle, and brought it close to my face. The liquid was a beautiful shade of almond, lightened with warm cream, and a fragrant steam rose from it like mist off the lake outside. I allowed a tiny sip into my mouth where it filled my palate with a delicious combination of bitter and sweet. Warmth oozed down my throat even before I swallowed, and I rolled the liquid around on my tongue for just a second before I let it slide smoothly down.
Sip after sip followed, each one adding to the warmth, until I could feel my chest start to relax and expand more fully, allowing air to pass freely from outside to in. I snuggled closer to my Grandmother as she drank from her own cup, reading me the comic strips from the early morning newspaper.
That first cup of morning coffee felt like life’s blood to me on that day.
I was three years old.
Oh man .. .three years old — the horror!
It is good for asthma. That’s the truth. We drank it when we were little too with lots of milk. I like the description of the porch and I like how you use a lot of sensory lines to make the description surround the narrator.
I like the way you describe the coffee. It’s not just coffee, a black substance in a cup that we all drink every day, but rather it’s a “beautiful shade of almond, lightened with warm cream, and a fragrant steam”…
Lovely descriptions, Becca
Becca,
This is just beautiful—I felt like I was there with you. I feel like I’m a child, snuggling with my Grandmother, feeling my breathing relax. I take it this is a tiny snippet of memoir here?
I run ultra marathons and I used to give up coffee for a few weeks before racing so that I’d be able to feel the caffeine hit in the middle of the night when I needed it. But my asthma kept playing up, and that’s when I found out that I was botching my races by giving up coffee. I love having a medical reason for drinking my coffee 😀
T
Thanks, Tamyka. It’s more than a tiny bit memoir…it’s 100%.
I don’t think back in 1960 that anyone had any idea coffee would have any medical effect on the asthma, but apparently it does. And maybe just being with my Grandma, who was calm and comforting, had something to do with my getting better.
I still can’t make a move in the morning without that first cup.
Wonderful, Becca! Your grandma was a smart woman. I live with asthmatics, and she was right about the coffee link.
“and I rolled the liquid around on my tongue for just a second before I let it slide smoothly down.”
I tend to do this as well haha. Sweet story 🙂
Mmm. My liquid drug of choice. So much good and bad it makes me laugh. Once in a while it’s good – it prevents cancer or something equally ridiculous – the next it’s bad and the reasons are just as ridiculous. I love coffee. I cannot function without coffee. When I need to fast for some silly tests – I procrastinate badly. I get up and I just can’t get mobile without my coffee. Often that is the way I meet/socialize with friends. A cup of coffee is mostly much more appealing than meeting for drinks or even a dinner. Without coffee I don’t know what I would do. I love Tim Horton’s coffee and I don’t understand why the tiny place I live in the mountains doesn’t have one. I have tried others (Starbucks, etc.) but nothing compares to my Timmy’s. I wonder if they haven’t put something addictive into their brew – it’s so good.
I only like milk, coffee or water as my choices of drinking. I do not like alcohol, I do not like fruit juices and I will take coffee over hot-chocolate although I am addicted it chocolate as well.
If I don’t have coffee in my life – I am doomed to a depressing, sad life of cravings. It is my choice – it is my decision.
You point out all of the extras that coffee brings, the perks that come with the taste. I like the line “so much good and so bad it makes me laugh”. That really sums up the scientific thought on coffee.
I sure enjoyed your post. I particulary liked these I close my eyes and smell it in and it smells like bark on a cool spring day and the seven years of mornings since I started drinking coffee. It smells like incense brushed over an altar. ” These really stood out to me. “Smells like incends brusehd over an alter,” really captures the smell of coffee beautifully. Here is my 15 minutes exercise.
There it sits before me all dressed up with white foam, whipped cream, and ribbons of chocolate artfully placed on top. Liquid candy. I usually drink it black, unadorned, plain no sugar. Straight up. But today, a cappuccino. I feel my eyes widen as l look down upon this decadent treat. It awaits me in a wide-mouthed white ceramic cup with blue flowers cradled in a matching saucer. The flowers in full bloom rising toward the top seem to invite me in.
My mouth waters in anticipation. I lift the hot cup, holding it with both hands. I take a sip. The cold whipped cream clings to my lips and then slides across my tongue bringing with it its sweet coldness followed by a hot blanket of liquid delight. I take a second drink this time drawing in a long deep drink. When satiated I return the cup to its saucer. Licking the remaining cream from my lips I sit back sighing in pure satisfaction.
Chanah Liora Wizenberg
I drink black coffee too and now your writing has made me want a fancy coffee treat like maybe a latte.
I was able to enjoy the coffee just by reading your description. Nicely done!
Thank you.
Joe – That was wonderful! No wonder my husband doesn’t like me to carry my notebook when we go out. I might come back through the notebook and eat his steak.”Smells like seven years of mornings since I started drinking coffee” is a great line.
Well done! Your story brought me in at the first line and kept my attention straight through. I wondered if you had your own cup of coffee on the first day?
Yes but I drank it too quickly!
“Robert, I think you need to clean this mess up … AND now!
“What mess?”
“The coffee pot is black and disgusting and your cup is about to grow legs.”
“Honey you know that’s the way I like it, the sludge keeps the coffee at just the right flavor.”
“If you don’t clean it up I will, and I’ll tell the children to stop buying you a new cup every year.”
The threat was just too much. I was sure I would explode when my little one trotted in to the kitchen.
“Hey buddy, want some breakfast?”
Julie, hugged and kissed our little one and blew me a half-hearted kiss as she went out the door to work.
“When I get home that cup had better be clean and the pot too. I am not kidding this time!”
I had about half an hour to get the little man some breakast, dressed, and ready for the nanny to pick him up.
Working at home these last few months is proving to be the most difficult time of my life. My wife doesn’t know the stress I’m under trying to keep the bank account above the ‘Mendoza line.’ I try to keep it from her as best I can, but this month the creditors have been ruthless and I fear Julie will find out the worst of it.
I can see the glass pot from my makeshift desk. I can hear it begging out to me for the black tar elixir she so desperate needs. I hear my cup, my sweet gift of a cup begging from deep inside her ceramic molecules for the sweet fulfiling desire of the hot liquid.
Oh, I can’t take it anymore. I grind the beans lovingly as the aroma wafts up around me and it hits me — I must wash this pot and cup to save my marriage.
How could I be so selfish?
The thick black tar at the bottom of my ceramic cup is nearly one-eighth inch thick now. I stop and think … how could SHE be so selfish. The first sip is fine and my mind is taken over. I’ll wash up later …
Well the thick black tar is definitely gross but then to each his own. I like your last lines”… and my mind is taken over. I’ll wash up later.”
My Dad liked his cup that way — I would find it for him when I was little … lol!
Love the last paragraph!
Thanks Eric …
Your dialogue is so snappy and easy to read. Well done!
Thank-you!
I pour my morning coffee into a mug with a cat on it. The mug has a long thin fissure down one side but has not started to leak yet. I put it by my computer. I’m going to check my email before I feed the upstairs cats. Woolfie, my purring darling, wants her food now. She bumps my face with her forehead, she gets in and out of my lap. She begins to wind around everything on the table where the computer sits. I put my hand on the coffee cup and continue to read. She pushes my hand. I tell her to get down. She gets down, then back up. She sits on the printer and looks down at me with half closed eyes. I take a sip of coffee. She steps down from the computer, comes close, nudges my hand, and the cup rim hits my teeth. I shout “Get out of here.” She jumps down, saunters over to the bottom of the steps, looks back at me, and begins a short bath, just her gold and black sides and her whiskers. She looks offended. I go back to reading. She’s on the table beside me again. I’m startled by her appearance despite having expected her return. I can see why cats are associated with magic. They’re so quiet that they can seem to appear from nowhere. She is beautiful, much prettier than the cat on the cup, much more interesting than my coffee, although I must admit that coffee can have a magic of its own. They are both great but Woolfie (aka. Krinklecat’s Virginia Woolf) is as demanding as she is delicious. I have a friend who named her cat Tenacity.
I love the way you describe your cat fighting with your coffee for your affection. The mysteries of cats and coffee…
Cats are great but day before yesterday when she knocked over a bottle of red fountain pen ink I was more than a little angry. Not that my being angry bothers her very much.
Haha – love her name! My first guess was that it was a play off of Mozart’s nickname in Amadeus; I figured you had a singing tomcat. Then I saw that kitty is a “she” and I couldn’t figure it out. Glad you answered my question at the end!
Her name is Virginia Woolf. I did think about Amedeus when I started calling her Woolfie. That was one of my very favorite movies. Great soundtrack.
Magic Brew Early each morning I lock myself in my home office. Just my coffee and myself, no interruptions until my cup is empty and my thought’s are awake. This morning was different as I did not have the extra few minutes to sit and languish. I drink my coffee black with just a hint of cinnamon. The cup was hot as the steam surrounded my small white desk. The coffee was entirely too hot to gulp this morning and I had to get going. Quickly, without hesitation I jumped up and flew into the kitchen. As I opened the freezer of the refrigerator my face felt the blast of cold air. I reached into the coldness with my warm hand and grabbed a small ice cube. As I carried the cold chunk of frozen water in my hand my body heat began to melt the ice cube. My steps picked up and I found myself running back to the coffee in my office. Kerpluk! The ice hit the steam in my cup. Within a few seconds, the ice melted and the steam had evaporated. Now I could gulp. Not a pleasant morning, tomorrow I will savor my first cup and get back to one of my favorite routines. Life, loves, routines and interruptions all inspire me to stop and take note.
Joe- I like that you drank your friend’s coffee. Note to self: never let Joe anywhere near my joe.
—
I’m a social drinker. Coffee. Mate. Alcohol. I invite people out and accept invitations not because I like the substance but rather the conversation. It’s not the jolt that gets me. It’s the time spent around the hot brew, the metal sieve, the icy stein.
I always smell like coffee shop. Not because I’m addicted to coffee. No, I’m addicted to the internet. I’m addicted to relationships. My name is Katie, and I have a problem.
I could say something about how coffee doesn’t do anything for me after sitting it in bean form lay across a Central American basketball court to dry. I could say I’m a coffee snob. I could say I love the live music. But none of those things would be true. I really am just a social drinker.
One decaf peppermint mocha and an hour of great conversation please.
That makes sense to me Katie. I think I’m a social drinker too, unless it’s really too weak or too strong any coffee is okay with me. I like the way you wrote for this practice, with the third paragraph reinforcing the first, and the language being like conversation, simple, straightforward, a little chatty.
I thoroughly enjoyed the blunt honesty – with a shot of whimsy! – in your entry.
It was always stale and bitter. It tasted terrible really, but Grammas’ coffee in Vermont was the best I’ve ever had. The deep and abiding love I have for the smell and feel of a warm cup of joe in my hands traces directly to chilly summer mornings among the woods and verdant fields of Gram’s summer place. Since those young beginnings I’ve had many, many excellently brewed espressos, lattes, americanos, mistos, red eyes, and even affogatos but nothing compares to the inky grocery-store-special drip that brewed automatically each day.
It began as something just to hold and warm the hands. I hated the taste of coffee in my tweenage years and didn’t become a drinker and caffeine addict until High School. It was the communal share of the ritual in those early days that was appealing and to this day soothes my soul. It seems as if that inky blackness held the possibility of the day, the weeks, the months spent in open spaces of imagination and exploration. All that could be was reflected in the oily slick surface of the mug.
Nostalgia has that way of giving the most mundane an exceptional quality so now when I have a terrifically bad poor of hotel, diner or gas station brew, the tangy offness of smell is pleasurable for its familiarity to those long ago summer morns. The more stale, the more bitter, the more mundane the more gravitational the memories become, calming my soul with every horrible sip.
I can now appreciate and enjoy what makes a coffee good. I am fussy in my tastes and have my own rituals for the first, pleasurable cup each day. But what makes coffee special is not the grind, ratio, blend, roast, temp or method. It is the quality of those sense-memory associations that elevate a simple mug to exceptional proportions.
This is great but I particularly like the next to last paragraph.
Very well written.
“The more stale, the more bitter, the more mundane the more gravitational the memories become, calming my soul with every horrible sip. ”
My favorite line 🙂
Agreed, JB. Incredible line.
Ah! Morning Coffee. Our bond is strong. She breathes life into my day, from the moment I hear her percolating, and inhale that sweet aroma. She travels from the kitchen, through the halls, and into my deep slumber, heightening my senses. All of a sudden, I find myself captured by her robust awakening. Gently, midnight dreams are set aside, as my eyes open to greet the morning. We sit together, in amazement, watching, as Mother Nature exposes her glorious beauty, like a spectacular stage performance. I take a sip, and she warms me from the inside out. Morning Coffee, you start my day. ~Vicky Kapp~
Hi Vicky,
You’ve very aptly described my relationship with coffee, there. I can’t imagine a morning without it. I love the visuals: the stage performance of Nature, sitting together with your coffee, midnight dreams being set aside (I pictured them on the bedside table).
My favourite phrase is ‘ I find myself captured by her robust awakening’. I particularly liked the word ‘robust’ in here, which made me think of robusta and arabica beans, ground down to make that Morning Coffee.
T
As I open the front door, a wave of heat washes over me, escaping the confines inside. I’m not sure what I was thinking, moving into a house with no air conditioning in the middle of a Brisbane summer. A bead of sweat threatens to trickle into my eye and I wipe it away in a hurry. I step over the threshold.
Something new washes over me. It’s not the heat. It’s not the heady smell of the flowers wilting painfully in the vase on my dining table. It’s not the faint but persistent odour of sweat in a running t-shirt draped over the chair.
It’s coffee.
I ground it this morning, expecting to have a relaxing mug of warm happiness before starting my day. But the phone rang and I was interrupted; then chores got in the way. I had to buy groceries and figured I’d grab a latte while I was out—and I did. It had beed delicious, fresh, milky and tasty. But it had lacked love.
My house smells like love.
I realise that I’ve just made quite a startling discovery. It’s not the taste of coffee that I’m addicted to, nor is it the caffeine content—it’s the smell. That rich, earthy aroma, almost like chocolate, but somehow warmer. One whiff and I’m hooked.
I search my memories for more evidence of this new theory. I find what I’m looking for—years of waking up to the smell of brewing coffee, along with the acrid burn of cigarette smoke. The latter was a masking agent for unpleasant bathroom odours. The former was the reason I gave my mum a kiss after she’d had her morning coffee. I tried coffee myself many times, always disappointed by the bitter taste until something changed in my late teens.
Coffee is the smell of growing up and the taste of becoming an adult. I’m an adult now, so I cross the dining room, which is also the entry room and the shoe room and the library, in this tiny house. I fill the kettle and wait by the gas stove for three minutes and twenty-six seconds while it boils. I tip a few spoons of those fresh grinds into my Aeropress, add the water, stir, plunge. Delicious dark liquid spurts and swirls into the mug below.
It’s too hot to drink. The coffee, the day, me—it’s all just too hot to enjoy. But that smell…
No, it’s too hot. Maybe I can put ice in it and top it with a little cold milk. Or maybe I’ll just leave it a bit, let it cool. Or maybe I won’t even drink the coffee. Maybe I’ll just drink in that smell of childhood, love and home.
I love the way you relate your grown up experience to your childhood memories of coffee. That’s very powerful, putting the two together.
This is beautifully written – I loved every word.
that was interesting! I actually read it twice to make sure that the impression I got the first time was accurate and I didn’t miss anything! very cool 🙂
i’m a college student. my grades in morning classes heavily depend on coffee 😛
I totally understand. I started drinking coffee when I kept falling asleep in my afternoon Lit class.
What’s amusing about this, Lali, is that you stated right off the bat that you wanted to drink your friend’s cawfee, and then you did drink it, you java-absconder you!
But not until the next day did you drink it. These things take time. Good lesson there.
And just so you’ll know about the oil in the cofeee, my friend Terry, a cawfie connoisseur, recently told me (in fact it was only five days ago he happened to tell me) that the oil, and the shiny lustre on the beans that indicates the oil presence) comes out in the last stages of the roasting process, when the espresso or italian strategy is coming into play.
But be warned, Lali. If you and I ever have coffee together, and you pull out your sketch pad, don’t be surprised if I move to the next table. I’m very territorial about my mojo.
Wow! Just like the start of Voyage of the Dawn Treader, you know, the children entering the picture on the bedroom wall. I loved this!
Thanks, Mr. McRipster 🙂
I could smell the coffee long before I opened the door of the Love Cup Coffeehouse. My first time here, I was meeting a dear friend to think through our mentoring partnership for the coming year. Dear Friend had suggested the Love Cup. I’m hoping the coffee lives up to the name!
A trendily dressed young barista walks to the counter and asks what I’d like to order. I respond with my usual, not being a very creative thinker so early in the day. “Skinny sugar-free vanilla latte,” I answer. Barista offers to bring it to my table when it’s ready. Service I hadn’t expected in a coffee shop.
Soon Dear Friend arrives, orders her coffee of choice, and just as we begin to work, my latte is delivered. There in a beautiful porcelain white cup, delicately balanced in an equally white porcelain saucer, is my latte. Smooth and creamy, it has the most beautiful heart in its center created by Barista with the steaming, frothy milk. It truly is a Love Cup!
So Dear Friend and I begin our morning’s work of planning for the coming year, talking about the young moms we mentor, and I keep looking at this beautiful cup of coffee and milk in front of me. Do I dare drink from this cup and destroy Barista’s lovingly crafted work of art? I’m so hesitant, but my tastebuds are going crazy and without the caffeine, I’m not really quite up to focusing.
“Something wrong with your latte?” Dear Friend asks.
“No, it’s just beautiful, so lovingly created. I think I’ve never been so emotionally moved by a cup of coffee before!”
I think to myself how silly I’m being — it’s just a cup of coffee. But the shop name, Love Cup, and the cup of love set before me have started my day on a path of realizing just how many faces love really has. I expect looks of love from my beloved, from my children (sometimes), from grandchildren, from friends. And yet, I’ve received love from an unknown Barista in the Love Cup in a cup! How unusual is that? I can’t quite comprehend the combination of emotions on the move as a result of this love gift so early in the day!
I finally take a sip, and yes, it tastes just as lovely as it looked. Now, I’m truly ready to face the day!
Sometimes I wonder if I really like coffee.
The taste buds can deceive.
I think I just like being awake.
I like to keep going, keep moving.
I like to deny how tired I really am.
I distract myself from the world of spreadsheets and staplers,
to visit a land of guitars, dreams, ideas and passions.
Coffee fuels me and keeps me going.
It takes me to new places and to interesting conversations.
It keeps me warm in the cold and it keeps me company while I write.
My coffee mug could tell a thousand stories.
Stories I wish I could hear.
So I sit with it and I try to pull them out.
One sip at a time.
One word at a time.
Your entry made me smile, Joe :-). Here’s mine:
“Look, Rex,” Hattie said, pointing across the rocky beach, “that bird has a broken wing.”
Rex did not look up from his coffee. “Sure seems that way, eh?”
Hattie nestled her tin cup into the sand and crept toward the bird, which, in turn, scurried just beyond her reach, dragging its wing behind.
Rex watched over the rim of his cup. Hattie stepped; the bird stepped. Hattie stopped; the bird stopped. Doggone city girl. How long would it take her to catch onto the bird’s game? He knew better than to laugh at her outright, but a snort escaped, and she heard it.
“Make yourself useful,” she snapped. “Go hide behind that boulder down shore. I’ll drive him toward you and then you snag him. Certainly you’re good for catching things?”
“You want me to catch a piping plover with my bare hands?”
“No. Act like a human and employ a tool. Use that big net you have in the boat.” She resumed her slow pursuit of the bird.
“Right,” he said. I’ll show you what I can catch, he thought, eying her backside.
Instead of fetching his landing net, he joined her, and the bird shot into the sky.
“What’d you do that for? You scared him.” No sooner had she spoken the words, then confusion washed over her face. “He could fly?”
“He’s no fool; he remembers me from earlier this morning. He didn’t want to join our breakfast, eh?”
With that, Rex traced the plover’s trail of matchstick prints and, at its end, plucked two speckled eggs out of the sand. He cracked them into a bowl, mixed in some coffee grounds, and scraped the sludge into the pot that boiled above the campfire.
“Finish your coffee, Hattie,” he said. “A warm-up is on its way.”
Hattie dug her tin cup out of the sand, marched down to the lake, and dumped it into the waves.
I was pushed down to the sofa. In front of me was the coffee table and sitting, waiting, on top of it was the drink. The four of them stood in front of me and the coffee table in a semi-circle. Their eyes were wide and their grins were Cheshire like.
“Drink, drink, drink,” they chanted. It started slow at first.
I smiled at them with my hands in front of me–palms facing them. “Come on guys,” I said. I tried standing up but June laid a huge hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.
“Drink, drink, drink” the chant started to pick up speed.
I tried to get June’s hand off of me but his grip was strong. August laid his hand on my other shoulder and I was left with no choice.
I looked at the cup of coffee. It was black, no sugar, and steaming hot–the way I used to drink them. Suddenly, the living room became hot and I started to sweat.
I gripped my knees with my fingers as I fought off the urge. I was clean for two months straight now, I thought to myself. I’m not going back.
“Just a little sip,” December purred in her innocent voice.
“Yeah March, a little sip won’t hurt you,” January added.
I closed my eyes and I tried to tune their sweet voices out. Don’t they know? A little sip is more than enough to bring me hurtling back to how I was before.
“Bring the fan out,” I hear August say.
January laughed. I opened my eyes out of curiosity and I saw January holding a pink colored fan. She started to move it up and down and up and down. The smell of the drink drifted towards me.
“Oh god,” I weakly said. I knew resistance was futile. The intoxicating scent slowly started to cloud my head. I found my hands moving on their own. Shaking, trembling, they reached for the cup on the table. Sweat poured down my face as I brought the cup to my lips.
“That’s it, just a small sip,” June said.
I did as I was told. I took a sip, and then another, and another. As I relished the bitter taste of the drink, I felt the hands release my shoulders. I saw them laughing and smiling. I knew I was back. The sleepless nights had return once more.
That’s hilarious.
Coffee had suddenly become my entire life. I had certainly enjoyed it before, but becoming gainfully employed at a certain immensely succesful worldwide coffee chain which shall remain nameless had brought coffee to the forefront of my life.
I made coffee all day. I sold coffee. I drank it, I read about it, I smelled like it, I even had dreams about it. And there was no shame in it. I knew that.
But I could not ignore the shame I felt when I admitted that yes, I was a barista. I saw the disappointment on their face when I told them that yes, I was a college graduate with two majors, I could sing an aria from La Bohème, I could direct a play, and I made 5 dollar cups of coffee for a living.
And it killed me. I knew that I could do anything, that I was capable of so much more. But that would involve admitting that my current job was beneath me, that I was too good for it. And that angered me more than their false pity at my hourly-wage job. I wanted them to understand that it was merely my job. It wasn’t who I was. I wanted them to undersand that even though I knew about coffee the way some people know about wine, that it didn’t define me.
I didn’t want to have to stop selling people coffee for them to change their minds about me. I wanted coffee to be enough. I wanted it to be enough that I could memorize an infinite number of drink combinations, that I could make someone’s day by knowing their drink and having it ready the moment they walked in the door.
I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind that coffee had become my entire life, that I went home smelling of coffee grounds, that my fingers were constantly stained with traces of the black, opaque liquid. I didn’t mind. But it killed me that they did.
It started as a way to break the ice (or tension?) by inviting her to have a cup of coffee. I had every intention finally have this conversation. I arrived early (as is my MO,) and ordered my usual Cafe Mocha, non-fat, light whip, found a table that was secluded in anticipation of this meeting.
While waiting, I stared at my coffee and as a way to brainstorm this inevitable meeting. The coffee smelled incredible. Aroma, and texture of the coffee was making my mouth water with the expectation of an afternoon delight. Coffee in the morning was always necessary and therefore, I never gave time to look at it as I am doing now. Breaking my thought and staring, I immediately looked up and to see if anyone was noticing my blank stare. All of sudden, the meeting was all but forgotten and as I grasped the cup of coffee to drink and savor, I was immediately shaken back to reality by my daughter ready to explain why she was moving to another country at 20.
Taking a sip, I cherished the smell, taste, and warmth which allowed me to listen to my daughters reasoning of moving. No, coffee wasn’t going to make it better but, it was allowing me to listen and be calm while sipping.
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The Write Practice Feb 15 (1 day ago)
Coffee [image: ] [image: Link to The Write Practice] ________________________…
Hem Srivastava
12:58 PM (21 hours ago)
to Write
Hi Joe,
This is fun. Following is my take on Coffee.
‘ The firm knock on the door woke him up. “Who is it?” he asked loudly.
” Kappi sir, kappi, Vali here sir, Sun – rise in another half an
hour,” Vali, the man of all seasons, and the jack of all trades at the
Coffee Estate yelled from the other side of the bed room door., ”
Won’t you and madam like to see the rising of the Sun, we have a 15
minutes walk to the end of the Plantation to get a clear view.” If
anything, Vali was a persistent sort of a bloke.
He felt Sheila stir besides him, ” It’s still dark outside, what
sunrise is he talking about, he is mad,” Sheila didn’t like her early
morning sleep disturbed. ” Oh OK, go get the darn coffee before it
gets stone cold,” She mumbled as she changed side and shut her eyes.
I unhooked the clasp and opened the door. Vali had a beaming cheek to
cheek smile, ” Wonderful day, sir,” He said softly, “The rain has
stopped.The sky is clear, we will be able to witness the Lord of Light
riding his chariot pulled by all the seven horses.” Vali had a turn of
phrase which at time appeared quiet poetic. He handed me the tray of
coffee. “Made from Coffee beans picked from the Estate sir, have a sip
all hangover from last night’s full bottle Whiskey will disappear in a
jiffy, Magic beans sir, real magic,, You can drink all night and in
the morning have this kappi and you will be skipping like a child.”
Vali must have seen me groggy and stumbling a bit.
“Right Vali, thanks,” I said, “In case this kappi really does what
you claim it does, come back in twenty minutes, we will be ready for
the sun – rise.”
“Trust me, sir” Valli beamed,” It works, don’t you see me so chirpy
and happy and without any headache every morning. Between us sir a man
has to learn to relax in the evening after a hard day’s work.”
I believed Vali, he was also a philosophe. His free advice on various
domestic and worldly matters was sought for and well accepted in
that Coffee plantation and who was I to dispute his philosophy
This is a bit delayed but I still felt like doing the practice 🙂
—-
Kristen was running late. She fell asleep without finishing writing the manuscript that was due in a couple of hours. They were definitely going to fire her now.
She quickly got out of her Manhattan apartment and didn’t bother calling a cab because of the traffic rush she saw. Good thing she decided to wear her comfortable flats so that it was easier to run to work and finish the last chapter in the office.
Kristen didn’t even have time to drop by her favorite coffee shop a block away from work, but smelling the sweet yet somewhat bitter aromatic scent coming from the shop made her want to go and get a cup.
“No,” she said aloud, convincing herself not to waste another second. She continued to walk as fast as she could and managed to arrive at work just a minute before the grace period ended.
“Safe,” she whispered to herself. But as soon as she reached her workspace, she regretted not having that cup of coffee. Her seatmate, Belle, was sipping hers happily.
Kristen frowned and watched as her computer came to life. She had to write but she was sleepy and had no coffee.
Drinking coffee while writing became a habit of hers and without it, she realized, she couldn’t write. The rich scent of roasted coffee beans made her perk up and the sweet yet strong bitter taste helped her write. It was all in her head though, she knew. But it was better than nothing.
“A cup of coffee for a writer’s block?” asked a familiar voice from behind. Kristen turned to look at who it was and saw her ‘muse’, Eric, holding a steaming hot cup of caramel macchiato. Eric had a wide smile on his face, which Kristen had always wondered what it meant.
She accepted the coffee and quickly said thanks, but he was gone as soon as she took the coffee from him.
Coffee and Eric and not being late. Kristen smiled. She knew what she was going to write now.
Coffee, oh, th vigorous warmth ebbing through this thin wall of ceramic, from your heart into my loveless hands. Many despise you for your taste. Yet, perhaps this is why you’re so dear to me. For your taste is the same as that of my heart — it is bitter. I have learned what it’s like to lose. Strength, honor… friendship, at no fault of my own. You and I are not so very different, my friend. Others see us and despair. They look at us and immediately they turn away. They are quick to cast judgement upon us without first knowing what it is they see. The world takes and takes, yet never does it give, as you have to me. I am alone, my friend. You are all I have. I am an outcast. You give me hope.
Broken, I care only for myself. But so often has the soft glowing rhythm of your tide washed the selfishness from my heart and allowed me to see what truly matters. That though we are loved little, we can love immensely. Together we are strong. Numberless are the nights you have stood by my side when all slept in their comfortable beds. Through my sickness and pain, you were there. Countless the nights you gave me discernment to pray and speak the truth to others.
You are beautiful because you take the world in all it’s diversity, its ugliness and beauty alike, and you draw us together. You take us past the artificial barriers of our selfishness and into true fellowship. You are a tool in uniting us and causing us to seek a greater purpose. Though many will always hate you because of who you are, what you are, you will always have me. We may be alone, but we have each other. Together we can make ourselves strong.
Coffee is the way of life for millions of people across the world. People stop at Starbucks and Mug and Bean and even make their own brewed coffee to take in their thermal coffee mug so they can drive and taste coffee at the same time as thinking about that morning meeting with the CEO that they have.
Coffee is the way of life for people who search for a sugar high because they need that extra energy to finish that deadline that has a day left to complete. They use breakfast as a means of going from flat to high because of a seriously good cup of coffee.
Over the last few years, coffee has developed from a single taste to a multi tasting fascination in people’s lives. There is rich coffee, medium coffee and not so strong coffee to be had wherever you go across the world.
People will read their novel with a cup of coffee or traditionally, after pudding finish with coffee at the table. You can buy it out of a Styrofoam cup or have it made in a cup or a mug for your preference.
Your desire and possible addiction to the caffeine high of coffee is not serious. You’re in my opinion allowed to drink 1 or 2 cups a day but 6 to 10 is not allowed and in fact is dangerous for your long term health. There are people who can drink coffee at 9pm and sleep without hassle but there are people who need to stop at midday because the caffeine levels will affect their sleep.
You’ve had a cup, I’ve had several cups but the main point is without coffee, what would we do?