Coffee: An Appreciation

Ah, coffee. When I recently found myself carrying two large mugs of you up the steps to my writing area – because one would not be enough – I realized just how much you mean to me.

While there are a multitude of things I could say about you, what amazes me the most is your ability to bring me joy in so many different ways.

When I open up a fresh package of you, I like your smell as it gently drifts up to my nostrils. It’s almost as if you’re telling me, in your own special way, that I made a truly wise decision in purchasing you.

I like the whirring and the crunching that I hear when you’re being ground, and although I know you’re only going through a physical change, it still seems like there’s more to it than that, like I’m witnessing something almost magical.

I like the gurgles and the hisses that emanate from the you-maker when you’re brewing, and I especially like when the first droplets of you fall down into the pot, so slow and tantalizing, like a faucet dripping miracles.

I like the sound you make when I pour you into one of my cavernous mugs: a waterfall of black gold worth far more to me than any oil.

I like when I raise you up to my lips and your steam tickles my glasses, enveloping them in a fog that perfectly symbolizes my blind devotion to you.

I like my first sip of you in the morning, and how for that one beautiful moment everything in the world feels right. It’s like having Christmas every day.

I like when you become one of my companions on a long road trip, joining the mournful sounds of country music in making bearable the task of putting up with drivers who have never heard of turn signals or brakes.

I like you in no-name cafes and small town diners and roadside restaurants, where you make breakfast a thing of beauty, or perfectly top off an evening meal with a hint of class that never reaches pretension.

I like drinking seemingly endless quantities of you when engaging in a deep conversation with a good friend. You’re like a silent third party; the best listener in the world.

I like you in mugs and I like you in Styrofoam, and I like you in the gas station cups with the lids that never quite fit. I also like you in tin, especially when huddled over a raging fire on a cold night.

I like you in the winter and I like you in the fall, and I even like you during the dog-days of summer when you make me sweat to the point of wanting to discard several layers of clothing, even if I’m in public.

I like you in full-strength and I like you in decaff, and sometimes I even like you in hazelnut. I do not, however, like you with cream or with ice, or when you’re instant, or when you’re strong enough to remove paint from the wall. You need only to be hot and black to achieve perfection, and perfection has no room for improvement.

Ah, coffee. You’re my lifeline, my rock, my constant companion. You’re my sunrise and my sunset, and if I’m ever in need of money, I’ll spill you in my lap at McDonalds and find a good lawyer.