I have a crush… on coffee. I don’t actually drink coffee but am absolutely smitten with the ritual of it. Perhaps it’s the heat that attracts me. I love the way hot coffee makes people pause.
Coffee drinkers may succumb to its addictive nature (ahh, the caffeine) but with that physiological pull comes with the grand gift of of daily pause. The measuring of scoops, pouring of water, waiting, and the smell. Oh, how I do love the smell of coffee.
Every day people wake up early to brew and wait, sit and sip, read the paper and ponder, while the sun comes up in the distance. I suppose that was the coffee fantasy of my childhood. Today’s is more about coffee shops, groovy baristas, music, familiar strangers, baked goods, and inspiring quotes printed on “environmentally friendly” cups.
It all feels very romantic to me. I crave it–the romantic pause of the coffee culture–but there’s a problem.
I don’t like coffee.
I can’t stand the way it tastes, never have been able to. I used to complain about my broken coffee dream, about how I couldn’t get past the coffee part of the experience to enjoy the ritual and pause. Years ago, a friend excitedly reassured me that she didn’t use to like coffee either but she’d converted herself. Beginning with a little splash of coffee in a mug of sugary milk (or milky sugar), she’d increased the coffee end of the ratio over time until she was able to drink it. Now, she can drink any kind of coffee she can get her hands on–fresh or old, hot or cold, fancied up or black. Finally, she is a coffee drinker!