Before the sun is up and the house is still dark, I creep toward the kitchen with a singular purpose.  It is 6:00 AM and my craving is out of control.  My two dogs are on my heels, standing close as I gather the tools to prepare for a fix.  I drop a pod into the hollow space inside the machine, fill the tank with water and press the option for strong brew.  The machine sputters and hums, steam releases from the nozzle before dark liquid finally streams into my mug.  My fingers drum on the counter, waiting.  Waiting. 

It’s coffee.  Coffee is my dark addiction.

When we were growing up, my parents kept a 20-cup coffee pot; the old percolator style that you still see in church kitchens or AA meetings.  It was never empty, though neighborhood women popped in and out throughout the day, drawing long pours from the spout into their cups and carrying them, steaming, to our dining room table.  Here the women would chat, their hair in rollers sometimes or covered with a scarf, talking, laughing, elbows propped on the table, their hands wrapped around their coffee cups. When I would linger around the table, eavesdropping or whining about being bored, my mother would turn to me and say, “Go find something to do, or I’ll give you something to do.”  This meant cleaning my room or something equally heinous, so I’d disappear for a while.  But before long I’d find my way back, hovering in doorways or stealthily slipping onto a dining room chair.  Don’t mind me.

Both of my parents grew up in Iowa, where coffee was a part of their daily life.  I suppose this is because days started early in the Midwest and there were things to do before heading off to school, to work, or to town, depending on your age and the day of the week.  My mother told me she and her siblings drank coffee from a very young age.  Her family was Lutheran, a denomination notorious for their coffee culture.  According to Garrison Keeler, “Lutherans drink coffee as if it were the Third Sacrament.”  My parents raised us in the Lutheran church, so I can attest to this fact.  Coffee after church service is obligatory; it is a fundamental part of Sunday fellowship.

One Christmas morning when my brother and I were kids, my dad taught us how to make coffee. Christmas was always a giddy time in our household. For years, my brother and I would get up before dawn on Christmas morning to see what Santa brought before anyone else in the house had even heard us stir. One year, when I was 11 and Kelly was 8, we were huddled in the kitchen, using the dim stove light to see what was in our stockings, rather than turning on the overhead light and risk waking our parents. It was about 5:30 in the morning. We were whispering and giggling, probably banging around more than we thought we were.

“What are you two doing?” My dad said abruptly. He stood in the doorway, his eyes squinty with sleep, peering at us like we were racoons that had crept in to dig through the trash. 

“Looking at our stockings,”  I said shakily.  “Kelly woke me up.”  My brother turned to me with a look of pain and surprise at my betrayal.  He clutched a GI Joe in his fist and looked down at his feet.  My dad looked from one of us to the other.  “It’s too early to be up already.”  He glanced at the stove clock.  “It’s 5:30 in the morning!”  We stood frozen, waiting for our punishment.  What wrath would be laid down?  Which toy would be taken away?  Would we have to stay in our rooms all day on Christmas?  The look on our faces must have been pitiful. 

My dad sighed and stood quietly for a moment, probably caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. “I want you to go back to bed for at least an hour. But before you do, I’m going to show you how to make coffee.” Kelly and I looked at each other. Coffee?

My dad pulled us away from the front of the stove and picked up the metal coffee pot sitting on the front burner. This was the one he and my mom used during breakfast before the 20-cup monster was locked and loaded. He turned to the sink to fill the pot with water. “Are you watching?” He asked. We nodded in the affirmative. “Fill it to the top line with water.” He tapped the side of the pot. See? He turned to pull a red Folgers can across the counter and filled the inner basket with three heaping scoops of coffee grounds. “Put three scoops in here. You got it?” We nodded. He placed the lid on the pot and moved it back to the burner, but did not turn it on. “If you’re going to get up this damn early in the morning, you need to get the coffee ready from now on.” We stepped back as he passed us to return to his bedroom. He turned back to say, “Now go back to bed.” We did as we were told. Lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, I waited for the aroma of coffee to hit my senses, alerting me that my parents were up and we could get this show on the road.

As kids, we were allowed to drink coffee with one stipulation:  we had to drink it without milk or sugar.  My mother reasoned that with four kids in the house, there was no need to waste these expensive commodities on coffee, which tasted fine with nothing in it.  I had no problem with this, I have always preferred black coffee.  My siblings were less inclined to drink it without the additional creamy sweetness.  When I was about 13, I had a friend stay overnight.  When she saw me pour a cup of coffee the next morning and then actually drink it, she was astounded. 

“You’re allowed to drink coffee?” she asked, eyes wide. 

I told her that I loved coffee and had been drinking it FOREVER. Showing off. I asked if she wanted a cup. She responded with, “Gnarly!” When I later told my mother that my friend thought it was weird that we were allowed to drink coffee, she said, “Well, I think it’s weird that kids drink so much pop. I’d rather you drink coffee than that sugary stuff.” There’s logic in that. Trouble is, I believe drinking coffee during my formative years created a physical and psychological dependence on the stuff. I’m laying no blame here; my parents did limit my intake to one or two cups a day. But it’s not just the caffeine I’m addicted to. It’s the pungent flavor, the heady aroma, the rich color, and instant kick of sharp acidity hitting my tongue, blasting my senses. Coffee is a connector; it encourages socialization. Let’s meet for coffee. Let’s take a coffee break. Let’s sit around my dining room table, sip from steaming mugs and chase our children away. It is a pleasure to brew, pour, smell, sip, and discuss gossip over. There is no better chaser for bacon and eggs, muffins, or Creme Brulee.

In my career, I did a lot of traveling, most of it to the East Coast.  In New York, I usually stayed in a lovely boutique hotel where the vibe is vintage; high beds, fluffy duvets, floor to ceiling windows with gauzy drapes, and beautiful dark wood furniture make it old-New-York-elegant.  I loved it.  EXCEPT.  There were no coffee pots in the room.  Room service informed me that it would be $40.00 without the delivery fee, service charge, and tip to have coffee delivered to my room.  Nope.  They told me that coffee would be served in the lobby starting at 6:00 AM and I was welcome to come down for a cup or walk to Starbucks just down the street.  At 6:00 the next morning, I stood in front of the antiquated, impossibly slow elevator, waiting for it to take me to the lobby.  It was pouring rain outside, so I did not walk to Starbucks.  I knew that I was not pretty at that early hour, disheveled and un-caffeinated as I was, but the looks I drew as I entered the ornate lobby made me check twice to be sure I had actually put on pants.  I sheepishly walked to the elegant decanters containing coffee and hot water. I looked around for a to-go cup.  A hotel employee dressed in a suit, hands behind his back, asked me if he could help.  “Yes, thank you.” I said.  “I want to take coffee to my room.  Do you have to-go cups?” I asked, looking around.  “No Mam, just those cups there.”  He pointed to teacups and saucers, stacked elegantly on a small service table.  What the…?   I picked up one of the tea cups and filled it with coffee.  It held no more than 3 swallows; that wouldn’t even last through blow-drying my hair. I approached the man again. “Do you have a tray I could use to carry a few cups to my room?”  He surprised me by reaching under the table and handing me a small, round wooden tray.  I filled three tea cups of coffee, put them on the tray and headed for the elevator.  It was a delicate dance, pushing the elevator button while holding the tray and not bumping other people on the elevator with it. By the time I got to my room, half the coffee had splashed out of the cups, it was cold, and I was cranky.  That evening after work, I walked to Target on Broadway and purchased a thermos, a mug, and Starbucks instant coffee.  The next morning, in the same sweatpants, averting dirty looks, I went to the lobby and filled my thermos with hot water. I waved at the man in the suit and happily went back to my room to whip up a respectable-sized cup of instant coffee.  I know some might wonder why I couldn’t just wait and get coffee on the way to work, or even at work. My answer is, it would take too long and without coffee, I am grouchy and unfocused. I have a tee shirt that sums it up, “I drink coffee so I don’t punch people in the throat.”

I like lattes, cappuccinos, mochas, and cold brews.  I like coffee ice cream and coffee gelato.  What I love is a plain, strong, hot cup of black coffee.  It’s what gets my motor running, evens out my mood, and makes me feel like I just might make it through the day.  I do not like decaf. I think it tastes different than “real” coffee, though I have friends who disagree with me. I suppose it’s like drinking non-alcoholic beer or wine; it’s an option for folks who can’t indulge, and more power to them! Given any of those options, though, I’d rather have water.

I’ll end here by poking fun at my decaf-drinking friends with a couple of quotes I’ve seen recently that made me laugh:

“Decaf coffee only works if you throw it at people.”
“There’s a time and a place for decaf.  Never and in the trash.”