My grandma drank coffee every morning. Back in the day when brewing coffee took time and made lots of noise. I remember the pot with beads of sweat glistening in the rays of the early morning sunlight that pressed through the dewy window at the end of her cramped little trailer. The steam would roll out and smell up the kitchen, mingling with the oily popping of frying bacon and the salty scent of homemade biscuits. People swore you could gain weight just by walking by my grandma’s open kitchen window.
I never drank coffee as a habit until I started smoking. The two just seem to go together as if any attempt to separate them would cause major damage to both. Smoke and steam. Rising in unison to greet the senses and rattle them from their apathetic slumber. During a semester in which I was absorbing a lot of philosophy, I would sit at Bob Evans and smoke and drink coffee and occasionally remember to eat the biscuits and gravy I ordered. “More coffee?” You bet. Fill ‘er up. “Cream?” Absolutely. And I got in the habit of carrying my own container of sugar – nothing is more irritating than spending valuable time opening all those damn little packets they have sitting in their cute little containers. Why spoil all their efforts at beauty and orderliness, I reasoned. Leave that for someone else to vandalize.
Now it’s anything that tastes like vanilla. French vanilla coffee with vanilla creamer. And sugar. Not even Starbucks can make it as good as I can.
I even shared a cup with my grandma recently. I think she was onto something . . .