Coffee

I really enjoy coffee, but don't drink it nearly as often as I would like. It's not that I lack a coffeemaker, a bean grinder, easy access to a Starbucks, or even a car to drive to the grocery store. It's just not something I think about often, even though I enjoy its rituals. I like the steps it takes to brew coffee, from the gush of water out of a weighty carafe to the smell of the grounds when I pop the lid off the coffee can. I'm bad about getting my coffee to water ratio correct, however, and tend to make the coffee too strong or too weak when I'm trying to make enough just for myself. Though it would be easier, I find something inherently sad in buying a machine that would only make one cup at a time. It's as though giving in to that purchase would be a needless reminder of being single, like buying single-serving frozen dinners and the sad music of taking one mug down from the kitchen cabinet.

I love drinking from large mugs I can wrap my hands around. The independent coffeehouse near my house serves a nice cuppa in a deep purple mug, which I have actually requested before, even though it made the barista look at me strangely before he admitted he too had a favorite mug. I like nibbling on something sweet with coffee, trading sips and bites while I browse Facebook or answer email. There's something sacred in going out for coffee, which is perhaps the best reason I don't make it at home. I don't care for overly sweetened varieties that are more dessert than coffee. I like a simple cup of regular, saying yes to 'Leave room for cream?,' and making my way to a table in the corner where I can people watch and chill. I may be enjoying my cup alone, but I'm surrounded by people with similar tastes on their tongues. It is in this unspoken camaraderie that I find myself at home.