Spilling the Beans: A love letter to coffee
The other day I complained on Facebook about not having anything to blog about.
“Write about your morning cup of coffee,” an old college friend prompted.
Challenge accepted. Let’s tawk about coffee.
I like my coffee like my men–tall, hot and sweet. I like it in my big, ugly orange mug–the one with the huge crack down the side. I like it in my house. I like it in your house. I like it in Maxwell’s House. I like it in the coffee shop, the diner, and the joint across the street with the open barrels of coffee beans that make my hair smell like mesquite smoked bacon.
I like it strong on Monday, decaffeinated on school nights and with a hearty shot of Bailey’s on the weekend. I’m not embarrassed to tell you that I’ve whispered “I love you” to a cup of coffee.
On extra groggy mornings, I swear it whispers back.
This morning, as the machine beeped at me to let me know the hot stuff was ready, I found myself calling across the room, “Hush now. Mommy’s coming for you.” It’s like a reflex I can’t even control. It happens every day and most of the time I’m halfway through the sentence before I realize there’s not another person in the room. What exactly is wrong with me? Or as my husband would joke, “What’s right with you?”
Which leads me to this question: Who else talks to inanimate objects in their house? Do you hurl expletives at your alarm clock like I do? Do you ask your toilet to kindly shut up when the water keeps running? Tell me I’m not the only one who glares at a ringing cell phone and asks, “Now what the hell do you want?”
But I’m never short or gruff with my coffee. Why would I be? It does so much for me and asks nothing in return but frequent pee breaks. It’s my sweet liquid sunshine, my cherie amour, my port in the storm. Coffee lifts me up when I’m feeling down, makes my heart skip several beats and warms my hands, belly and soul. I love it more today than yesterday. But not as much as tomorrow.
And here we are again. The pot has run dry. My orange mug is on the fast track to dregs-town. This love song is nearly over.
“Don’t worry,” I say to her. “This isn’t goodbye. It’s see you later.”