Coffee

Most people don’t believe me when I say that I started drinking coffee at the tender age of five.

It’s completely true, though. In typical oldest child, “I want to be an adult before I even wear real underwear” fashion, I made it known to my grandparents that I’d be happier if they basically let me do everything they were doing. And in typical grandparent fashion, they let me. This included not going to school, watching the news, and drinking coffee.

My first memory of drinking coffee took place in Sea Isle City, NJ, in a trailer at a beach campground. I remember drinking out of a plastic mug, crossing my legs much like my grandmother and staring out the window, trying ever so quietly to catch a glimpse of the hummingbirds my grandfather was trying to attract in some sort of homemade feeder.

While I saw only a few hummingbirds, I was a very happy camper. Starting my day with two people I adored, drinking a sweet, hot beverage, feeling like I was one of the big kids. To me, it was the perfect summer vacation. And I did it with two long braids falling down my back, underneath my Good N’ Plenty conductor’s hat.

When I visit my parents, I wake to the smell of coffee brewing. I leave my husband asleep in bed and mosey downstairs to the family room, or if the weather’s nice, to the pond in the backyard, and we sit and drink coffee, talk about life, work and (gulp) grandchildren.

I have my coffee of choice. Steaming hot, strong Cuban coffee from my Bialetti is so classic, so intense. And as I type, my mind is drifting back to the first latte I had in Paris in a café with my husband – the taste of which made up for the horrible service and overpriced croissant.

Gourmet as I am (or at least, claim to be) nothing beats a hot cup of coffee from my mother or grandmother’s coffee pot, preferably served in a familiar mug with a large side of conversation.

Coffee is a tie that binds my family.