A Cup of Joe
I just realized I can’t write this without a cup of coffee. So, excuse me, I’ll be right back. . . . There, that’s better. My favorite coffee, Sumatra, with a couple of dollops of cream, okay, three.
Some people believe that Mom put coffee in my baby bottle. That’s not likely, although I would have to take the fifth in a court of law. The reason this idea is probably mythological is that my parents were never really coffee drinkers. My father only drank coffee under social duress. My mom did drink some coffee of her own free will, but I don’t have any clear memories of it. She actually preferred to drink hot water, which, if you think about it, is the most drinkable part of coffee. Sucking on coffee grounds will do in the throes of withdrawal, but they aren’t very satisfying.
So, how did I come to be a java junky? I grew up a natural night owl. I survived college and seminary without coffee. It was either a misplaced sense of self-righteousness or plain ignorance that is responsible for those lost years without caffeine addiction. But, something happened at the first parish I served in Great Falls, MT. The office staff was splendid in all regards and especially in their diligence for keeping the coffee pot on all day long.
This is the point where joe entered my life. The parish coffee pot was always ready and just down the hall from my office. There was an endless supply of ceramic coffee cups on a tray beside it. I found myself needing to stop by the parish office on numerous occasions. I hardly ever left without a full cup of coffee. Even the times I forgot to bring a cup from my office a new cup was easily at hand and made it down the hall to my office. Over time the bouquet of cups on my desk grew quite large. Hints from the office staff about bringing the cups back went unheeded. So it was up to God to bring the point home.
People who know me are aware of my absent-mindedness. My attention to the here and now does not just step out for a quick break, it can actually take a month-long vacation leaving me blissfully unaware of reality. As the assortment of coffee cups on my desk grew, it slowly changed from slovenly practice into a full-blown science experiment. One day, in the throes of exploring Na Na land, I missed my reach for the current coffee cup and snagged a cup that was in the latter stages of biological development. I came back to reality in total shock with a mouthful of some of this world’s most awesome mold. The office staff seemed a little puzzled as I trucked a couple of armloads of coffee cups into the back room and washed them up. Wisely, they said nothing.
My second parish brought a majestic view of the Mission mountain range out my office window in Kalispell, Montana. However, I was now responsible for making my own coffee. On some days it didn’t seem like a fair trade. That was, until the day that I stumbled upon a local small-time coffee roaster in Whitefish, Montana.
This was my first experience with coffee that didn’t come out of a gallon tin can. The proprietor was an aging hippie who had settled in northwest Montana to escape the hustle and bustle of southern California. He said that everything about the move had met his expectations—except coffee. He had floundered around the area for a couple of years, unable to get what he called “a decent cup of coffee.” So he had decided to set up a coffee shop with a roaster. I was fascinated as he took me in the back of the shop to see the stainless steel miracle with its whirring fan amidst sacks of unroasted beans from all over the world. He continued to lecture on the merits of various beans and ways of roasting them for the better part of an hour. I was totally captivated, becoming an instant expert, evangelist, and coffee snob. Suddenly coffee was not just coffee anymore. It was a cornucopia of international flavors and depths of roasting. I left that shop with a coffee grinder, a french press, and two pounds of Sumatra coffee. My children might go without winter coats, but I was now set to embrace the true religion of great coffee.
I’ve never gone in for fancy coffee. Lattes, cappuccinos, and iced coffee drinks are for other people. I guess I have a thing about paying more for a cup of coffee than a gallon of gas. The hypocritical exception to this sentiment is espresso. I clearly remember when I ordered my first espresso. The big yellow espresso sign that drew my attention to the street-side vendor in San Francisco had an addendum, “If you don’t know what it is, don’t ask. You won’t like it.” That was a clever piece of marketing, and I ordered the drink before I had puzzled out the reverse psychology. I looked askance at the barista as he handed me a tiny paper cup maybe a third full of dark viscous liquid. That tiny drink was what the fuss was all about? But the explosion of rich bitter flavor hooked me forever on hard-core coffee. It took me nearly as long to finish that first thimble full of espresso as it did to drink a normal cup of coffee. Since then, I’ve learned to order quad shots of espresso. I’ve never noticed what they actually cost. Who cares since my children now buy their own winter coats?
Over time, however, I’ve backslid in my coffee piety. Here are some true confessions. First, I no longer run screaming from the sight of brewed coffee desiccating on a hot burner in a gas station. But, I am deeply thankful for the switch to brewed coffee in air pump carafes that one finds on the roads these days. Second, I have actually bought coffee that is already ground. It is a convenience that has inured me to the noticeable drop in quality near the bottom of the bag. Third and finally, I actually own a Keurig, gasp! Well, I possess my son’s pod-based coffee maker. As old age laziness sets in, I find myself a sucker for the instant cup of pretty good coffee, especially since I discovered a source for Sumatra K-cups.
I have no notion of how far I might fall from grace. I have determined that my coffee addiction is terminal, so the descent into less than pure coffee practice seems inevitable. Through wisdom or senility, I find that compromise is the name of the game. However, if the day comes that someone finds me stirring instant coffee crystals into hot tap water then I hope they will cart me off to a nursing home that still serves decent coffee. It will be time.