Coffee Drinker
I’ve been a coffee drinker for over forty years.
When we were kids, my mom would let my sister and me have “coffee milk,” which was a small slug of java, lots of milk, and as much sugar as we wanted. It’s no wonder I grew up to be not merely a coffee drinker but a bona fide addict.
In fact, one of the only times my mom showed exasperation with my youthful indiscretions was when—at about age 19—I told her I had kicked the coffee habit in the interest of dietary and bodily purity. Having merely rolled her eyes when she became aware of what a pothead I was in high school, and having just shrugged her shoulders and cautioned me to be careful when she discovered I was occasionally taking psychedelics around that same time, she, by contrast, launched into me when I tried to sell her on the value of kicking caffeine.
“Why that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” she spat, no doubt punctuating her remark with a hit off the glass of watery iced coffee that was never far from her reach. “Really, the nonsense you children today believe.”
While I may have gone a few more months drinking ginseng tea and Celestial Seasonings “Roastaroma” blend, I clearly came around to her way of thinking soon enough. I remember having an espresso one afternoon in San Francisco—it would have been the summer Elvis died, 1977—and feeling so delightfully jittery and sweaty that I was all but hooked.
These days, I consume about a quart of coffee a day. The pot I make—French press for the last decade or so after years of Melita filter— in the morning (minus a cup or two I drink right way) goes into a thermos I carry on my bike. I space two or three more cups throughout the day, usually finishing the last one right before my ride home.
Yum.
When we were kids, my mom would let my sister and me have “coffee milk,” which was a small slug of java, lots of milk, and as much sugar as we wanted. It’s no wonder I grew up to be not merely a coffee drinker but a bona fide addict.
In fact, one of the only times my mom showed exasperation with my youthful indiscretions was when—at about age 19—I told her I had kicked the coffee habit in the interest of dietary and bodily purity. Having merely rolled her eyes when she became aware of what a pothead I was in high school, and having just shrugged her shoulders and cautioned me to be careful when she discovered I was occasionally taking psychedelics around that same time, she, by contrast, launched into me when I tried to sell her on the value of kicking caffeine.
“Why that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” she spat, no doubt punctuating her remark with a hit off the glass of watery iced coffee that was never far from her reach. “Really, the nonsense you children today believe.”
While I may have gone a few more months drinking ginseng tea and Celestial Seasonings “Roastaroma” blend, I clearly came around to her way of thinking soon enough. I remember having an espresso one afternoon in San Francisco—it would have been the summer Elvis died, 1977—and feeling so delightfully jittery and sweaty that I was all but hooked.
These days, I consume about a quart of coffee a day. The pot I make—French press for the last decade or so after years of Melita filter— in the morning (minus a cup or two I drink right way) goes into a thermos I carry on my bike. I space two or three more cups throughout the day, usually finishing the last one right before my ride home.
Yum.
posted by Professor Dave at 1:06 PM
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