A LETTER TO COFFEE

 

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Dear Coffee,

Make yourself comfortable at the dining room table. Take a seat. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble, so relax your steaming breath. I have so much to tell you.

I’ve heard that your conception was a mistake. I hope you do not view yourself in a bitter light because of this revelation. Indeed, when Kaldi munched one of your berries, he was happier for it, and so eventually were his cohorts upon discovering that their concentration during prayer was heightened and elongated. Nowadays, you fuel the midnight study frenzies of university students, the button-mashing gamers in their rounds of Mario Kart, and the kids who just want to watch the sky from sunset to sunrise.

I remember a time in which you had a little fight within my pituitary gland. I think those herbs at the hormonal construction grounds were jealous, and opted to whisper scathing secrets about you instead of offering a welcome handshake and “hello.” I don’t know how much provocation you offered, or who started the fight, but the days of your scuffles are done. I no longer fear a fluttering heart, or thoughts mashing into one another like atoms in a supercollider, threatening to rip and burst. I admit, a few unkind thoughts about you surfaced, but rest assured, do not steam in anger and hurt. I hold no grudge.

If anyone should apologize about anything here, it’s me. I’m sorry, at first, for dousing your perfume with my own brew of creams and syrups. I tainted you, changed your color, buried your natural beauty beneath a prim and proper mask. I’ve learned from my errors now – those days have been usurped, in favor of only mild alteration. A sprinkle of sugar, a splash of cream. I hope you breathe a little better now, and aren’t coughing up sugar in your sleep. You look much prettier with minimal cosmetics.

It is September, and I will tell you all stitches in the holes of our relationship are mended. This morning I enjoyed you in pumpkin form to celebrate autumn’s (relatively nonexistent) arrival. I have a shrine in the kitchen devoted to you. It is metal and twirls like a dancer, each lid visible and proudly displaying your every variety: Pike’s Place, coconut, and even your cool alter-ego, Iced. Your brother Espresso, of whom you think so highly, sits next to you, too. I do hope the pair of you get along – for I know he is stronger, but you have age and wisdom that he does not entirely possess. Never feel like competitors. You are both lovely just the way you are.

It hurts you, I bet, to hear all of the conflicting rumors on the news about the health implications linked to you, and that some think of you as less than lovely. Hypertension. Meddling in the affairs of fickle hormones (I apologize for bringing up a sore subject). But these are the same health professionals who eat McDonalds’ and Lean Cuisine frozen dishes on their breaks. The same ones who sleep three hours per day. The same ones who gulp four or five cups of you or Espresso in their shifts. I smell hypocrisy, a pungent scent more odorous than aged Espresso.

So, Coffee, I must end our conversation with a thank you. Thank you for listening and for your daily motivation. You understand the grouchy mornings, and take them with no complaint. You take nothing, but give. You always smell fresh. Humans could learn a lesson or two from you.

With love,

 

 

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