I love coffee. As a little girl, my grandfather would brew coffee as part of a pre-work ritual, using a stovetop percolator to make coffee. He’d pour a cup to drink with him, loaded with milk & sugar. Seems like once I started school, that ritual died. His mornings started later then mine. I didn’t miss it. As I got older, I couldn’t figure out why people loved it so much. My high school biology teacher, Mr. Briley, was the sweetest guy, but his breath was a killer combination of coffee and cigars. Class was immediately after his exit from the teachers’ lounge. I learned quickly not to ask for individual assistance.
Enter college. What do you do when you’re too young to go to bars? Hang out in coffee shops, diners, bakeries, ice cream parlors. Coffee became such a habit. One I could drop easily and did.
Enter good coffee. It was magical. I wanted it daily, buying my weekly fix for home. Then my own pre-work ritual began. I’d call my mother while buying my cup at Peet’s. My favorite barista Tom would say,”Good Morning, Mama” to my mother because I’d enter daily mid-conversation. She still cannot fathom why people drink coffee outside their homes. She can’t wait that long to get her caffeine fix. Anyway, it threw her that someone she would never meet invested the time to say hello.
Enter Italy. The morning cappuccino. The caffe correcto. The gorgeous men behind every counter. Every cup more luscious than the last. Why did I bring up Italy? Now I want to go back…
Enter now. I drink coffee & chicory, but it’s a bitter compromise. Fortunately, my dog gives me a great reason to leave the house and buy a great pour over. A new ritual.