I have written oodles on my love of coffee from love letters to all and out declarations dedicated to that wonderfully strong concoction. Okay, maybe not oodles, maybe a few (plus a Wordless Wednesday this week) but when you love and appreciate something isn't it natural to express ones love for it?
The moment my eyes attempt to open, my mind races with what I need to do, what needs to be done and what I should be doing. Waiting for the coffee to brew, I stand watching it drip into my cup. Holding the cup and sipping it I can finally breathe. Not sure why I claim the morning as this ritual time because it can be at any time of day and I’d feel the same way. I am sure others feel this way about tea, wine or chocolate.
Coffee is like sex and pizza – even when it’s bad it is still good. Actually, coffee is better than sex because you can improve bad coffee with cream and sometimes, albeit rarely, sugar. Can’t improve a bad lover no matter how hard you try.
Friendships and love affairs start over cups of coffee. They also end this way too. Of course if you are my sisters, people are judged harshly if you turn down coffee. Hell, I judge those who don’t drink it as well. The Husband had the good sense to accept coffee when offered and has been loved by my family ever since. Sure it was mostly sugar and milk but coffee nonetheless.
Coffee is socializing. No one says, “Let’s discuss this over a spaghetti dinner.” That doesn't even sound like it would be a good conversation. Imagine noodles slopping out of someone’s mouth as they told you your world would be changing. Imagine red sauce dribbling down your chin as you declare your {insert emotion}.
Occasionally, my body and my love of coffee are at odds. Sometimes, my stomach revolts at how much I may have had and in the absolute worse case scenario I had an aversion to it altogether. I was pregnant then. Baby girl did not like coffee in the womb unless it was drowned in sugar and cream and I abhor coffee made that way.
My kids love to make my coffee for me. I have a Keurig Vue so its not like they have to measure or pour anything. They are never in any real danger. My oldest is the one that makes it on his own and the baby (who is now three) insists on helping me when I make it. The Husband finds this creepy that they would want to make it for me and bring it to me
Call it an addiction or obsession but it is just a much a part of my routine as breathing.
