My Coffee, My Book and Me by Sandi J. Holland
A misty, rainy morning and
it’s back to bed for me.
My coffee drips invitingly.
My current book lies dog-eared
at stopping place,
from last personal quality time.
What else can I do
but plump my pillows
and climb in?
You would too.
With hot libation,
and mental laxation,
peace is mine.
I love coffee. It’s been part of my life since I can remember. Dad drinks it constantly. I remember starting in on it when I was 9 or 10. Mornings like this one beg for it. It’s frosty outside, the heater blows, and there’s a chill on my feet. I didn’t sleep much last night, and have things to do today, so coffee it is, paired with a hot shower, a pot of coffee is an adequate substitute for a decent night’s sleep. I figured this out when the boys were all babies, and sleeping in wasn’t an option. Nowadays, I suppose I could crawl back in bed if I wanted to, but habits die hard, and I’d rather a pot of hot coffee, a good book (or a warm computer on my lap) than a couple hours of inadequate sleep.
David likes coffee as well, and there is this unspoken rule in the house, that whoever gets the last cup from the pot, makes another pot. Sometimes it doesn’t get done, and is the source of minor contention between us. I admit that half the time it doesn’t get done, it’s my fault, so I’m not pointing fingers, but it does result in raising of voices and accusations.
Some of my best friends are coffee fiends (is that anything like the Dope Fiend of years ago? Probably, as any removal of coffee would result in a Jekyll/Hyde type response). Jerseychick has the good sense to have a pot on when I show up. My friend John up in NA, who never does anything halfway, buys beans from all over the world, and roasts them himself. Coffee at his house is a Sensory Experience, not just a hot beverage. The aformentioned Dad makes Cowboy Coffee, that is, strong enough to float a horseshoe. Terry and I prefer the New Awlins style with chicory. Chicory coffee came around during the Wah of Nawthin’ Aggression, when coffee substitutes abounded due to Nawthin’ blockades. Chicory ( essentially a weed that grows around here) has a thick root, that once ground and roasted, approximated coffee. Now it’s blended with coffee to give it a deeper, almost bitter flavor, that Terry and I approve of.
This morning, due to the sketchy nature of last night’s slumber, I am drinking the coffee. 1 spoon of sugar, a splash of coffee-mate, and all’s well with the world.
The 23rd Cup
Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me to wake in green pastures;
It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses.
It restoreth my buzz.
It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for its name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of addiction,
I’ll fear no Equal for thou art with me;
Thy cream and thy flavorings they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of Juan Valdez.
Thou anointest my days with vigor; my mug runneth over.
Surely flavor and aroma shall follow me all the days of my life
and I will dwell in the House of Maxwell forever.