Good coffee is a beautiful thing about being human. A flipbook through time.
Grandpa enabled curiosity for the warm, sweet smell early on. He’d pick up doughnuts on weekends we visited, secretly letting me dunk bites of long john in his mug while grandma was in the other room.
As my hair and legs grew long, I began sneaking sips from dad’s post-church cup as we (to my recurring dread) socialized in the lobby.
Eventually caught — outed by a tendency for biting the cup’s Styrofoam edges — I was surprised to be asked if I wanted my own.
Adulthood finally hit in college, when I bought my own 2-cup carafe and began near-constantly brewing up some of the worst coffee you’ve had in your entire life.
Today, I don’t own a machine; just an old glass pour-over and kettle. But I love seeking out local roasters nearby and picking up beans when I travel. My favorite little luxury; a gift to myself and loved ones.
The beautiful social excuse; a much-needed break in the day: Want to meet up? Late morning cup on me.
Tough day? Great day? Perfect. I even recently discovered the joy of a good decaf.
When enjoying a slow morning just how I like it, all I can think is how grateful I am to still be here.