Good morning everyone!
Today I write to you in the haze of a post-daylight-savings ridiculously busy weekend. I am still in my pajamas, with a face full of makeup on, and am not entirely sure at the moment as to what my life is about. But that’s just fine. How do I know it will be fine? Because I have an entire pot of coffee brewing for me as I type this. Let’s be frank: this isn’t just any old coffee. Lately, I have developed a mild obsession with the Trader Joe’s Coffee á Cocoa, which boasts not only a lovely dark-roast, but has unsweetened cocoa blended in to it as well. I’m never sure as to whether I want to drink it, or rub it on my face. In short, it’s delicious.
I deviate. Today, once I’ve had my cup of coffee, I would like to tell you all about my lifelong relationship with coffee. I mean, lifelong. “Ah,” you might think, “that explains why you were under five feet tall for such a long time.” Well, dear readers, maybe it does. I’m not here touting all of coffee’s health benefits. All I know is, long before my inexplicable love of dance came to being, there was an inexplicable love of coffee. This need for coffee at a young age has become one of my main conversation starters; not only is it amusing, but it’s often relevant in one of our most common social gathering spots: the coffeehouse. I recently met someone, who, when I began my ode to coffee, told me he no longer drank coffee. I was at a complete loss as to what to say and conversation came to a grinding halt. In the more common situations, I usually begin with this tale:
One of my most prominent memories from my very young life (around the age of two or three) consists of myself, running around at just about eye-level to my parent’s coffee table, snatching the half-drunk mugs of cold coffee the grown-ups had long abandoned. These were tepid, often cold, mostly black, and occasionally instant cups of coffee (thanks to my father’s preferences). The hyperactive little thing I was relished them, but for God-knows what reason. Fueled on the dregs of coffee, I can only imagine that I must have been a nightmare to deal with.
When I first told my mother this story, she came back at me with an even better one. Before I could even remember, just after I had learned to walk, and that the utterance of the word ‘please’ could magically get me whatever I wanted, I would cling to her in the kitchen, with my little hand out. “Please….please,” I would say as she was grinding the beans. She would oblige, giving me one. No sooner had I crunched the bean she placed in my little hands, they were out again, repeating the ritual over and over again until she had brewed all of her coffee for the morning.
Okay, this is perhaps more evidence as to why I was more of a strange, little reincarnated Mediterranean man as a child than anything, but my odd preoccupation with coffee has never gone away. It’s an odd sort-of bond. In my adult life, I have come to enjoy other elements of coffee besides the taste. I love the way it warms my hands, and would have never been able to get through an entire year of waking up and trudging to work in the dark of the night without it. Its soothing qualities have transformed it into my version of “comfort food.” It is, admittedly, my cure-all:
Feeling tired? Drink coffee.
Headache? Drink coffee.
Eat too much? Drink coffee.
Listless? Restless? Bored? Hungover? Drink coffee.
I honestly don’t know what it is. If someone was to ask me as to the things I would want to bring with me on a desert island, number one on my list would be coffee. Number two, would be dry-shampoo. As a matter-of-fact, during my first foray into camping this last January in New Zealand, I was utterly content with just that. Just ask my friends. No matter what the circumstances, you’ll be able to find me in the backseat of your car, contentedly spraying my hair, clutching my travel mug of coffee, hoping no one notices.