Coffee Mate

For some, coffee is a status symbol carried in a cardboard cup; proficiency measured by a mastery of syllables, seasonal specials and purchased with plastic. These commercial coffees with their chain-store baristas and bustling public leave me feeling short-changed. Coffee isn't commercial--it is relational.

My relationship with coffee began in a farmhouse kitchen.  Mornings on my grandparent's farm started with the pungent scent of scalded coffee beans intermixed with a spicy sausage gravy and my grandmother's homemade biscuits. But it was the coffee--dark, black and bitter--endlessly poured from the stained glass belly of an old Mr. Coffee that kept us lingering the linoleum table long after the dishes were cleared and which kept us returning to the table and each other throughout the day.

Drinking it straight was considered right and proper and while I dared risk grandpa's pretend -distain for creamer and sugar, I took considerable pride that when I wanted to, I could drink it black, with the best of them.

And while my grandparents are now gone and farm long since sold, coffee still finds a way to connect me with friends and family each day. Mornings in my kitchen are met with the steamy hiss from the coffee maker and time spent with friends always includes a cup of Joe--sometimes from a chain-store barista, some seasonal special I purchase with plastic. But on occasion, just to remember that I am still my grandfather's daughter, I drink it strong and black to prove I can still drink it with the best of them.