Coffee Changed My Life (Sort Of)
I came to coffee later than most. Much later.
I tried it sparingly before I turned thirty. The first time I remember was an attempt to cure my hangover from the Bunn pot in the break room at The Denver department store when I was mid-twenties. Burnt. Bitter. Vile. The powder creamer did nothing for it either. I finished the shift dragging my sorry ass around, but that was an infinitely better fate than choking down that grainy black swampwater.
My wife — my ex-wife now — likes coffee, and one of her favorite gifts from our wedding was an espresso maker. I used to make her morning tea, and on weekends I’d make her morning latte too. In all humility I became pretty accomplished, and as nasty as coffee tasted to me at the time there’s no denying its tempting scent. And after a goodly amount of time I finally made a latte for myself.
It needed sugar. Desperately. That problem was very easily solved, and so I would occasionally have a cup. And all was right with the world.
Until I gave up caffeine.
I suffered from episodic migraines, and when I was afflicted they usually attacked on the weekend. I thought it might be a reaction to a lack of caffeine, since my weekday lunch always included a full measure of Coca-Cola and I had none on the weekend. So I cut out caffeine. It turned out not to be the cause of my headaches, but once I was decaffed I didn’t see a reason to go back. So I’d have the occasional decaf latte, but it was even more rare than my previous coffee dabbles.
And then I began running.
Roger, Tony, and I were always too rushed following our weekday runs, but on Sundays our post-run coffees quickly became habit. Part celebration, part reward, part socializing, part replenishment, the coffee ritual became as important to me as our workouts. I mourned the very rare occasions — mostly Mother’s Days — when we didn’t get to indulge. And for me it was always a small decaf, very generously laced with cream and sugar.
For years that once-a-week ritual stood alone in my coffee world, until my newly-retired father and I began to meet one morning a week as well. We started at Starbucks, where I was able to keep to my decaf, but we soon included my brother. The three of us would sit on the patio on Saturday mornings at my father’s house to catch up over cups of definitely-caffeinated coffee made in my father’s industrial-sized coffeemaker. I always limited myself to a single cup, which remains my practice today (I’m generally anti-stimulant, but obviously not a zealot about it).
As I aged I met other guys around town — invariably part of Tony’s social network — and, since they were all in my age cohort, many had retired. We began to meet Wednesday mornings for camaraderie and conversation over, of course, coffee.
Then my older daughter moved out of the house and we started seeing each other Friday mornings for bagels and, well, coffee. She got the drinks — a mix of caffeinated and decaf for me and some combination of coffee, oat milk, foam, and who-knows-what-else for her — and I grabbed the bagels from the shop next door. We caught up on what’s going on in her life and, if time permits, on mine. (Time rarely permitted, but to be fair her life is much more interesting!)
So the roasted bean became an organizing event for four of my mornings every week. And then Covid came, and it reordered everything. Coffees moved outside, but they still happened — our human connections were too important to wither, even as we took precautions to keep safe. And as my business failed, and as my now-ex-wife and I faced our tepid empty-nest marriage, and as I considered what would come next for me, those connections over coffee remained vital to my life and its emotional health.
Eventually my now-ex-wife and I divorced, amicably, and I moved to Montana to write. My business continues to limp along, so not all of my past burdens have been unloaded. But I have learned that my writing goals require persistent energy and focus. And guess what ubiquitous elixir provides exactly that? (And who knew Montana had such a coffee-centric culture? So many local roasters and coffee shops to experience . . . .)
So coffee has become a fully-integrated part of my everyday morning routine. I have kicked the cream and sugar out — cold turkey three years ago, following the example of my younger daughter — but I’m now an unabashed regular coffee consumer. I still stick to a single cup, but it helps me get out of the house to the library where I do my writing. It isn’t the reason I’m able to do it, but it’s a tool that helps me accomplish what I want. And in my relative solitude it reminds me of those social meet-ups I so enjoy.
I visit the Bay Area regularly, and I still have coffee with my father and brother on Saturdays, even as we drink it in the common room where my parents now live (and with as many family members who decide to show up). On Wednesdays when I have the space in my schedule I’ll sit with the retired guys for a cup that goes with the ever-lively conversation. I see my daughter on Fridays when her demanding work schedule allows. And Tony, Roger, and I — and whoever else finds time to knock off a few miles on Sunday mornings — always make time to catch up over coffee after our run.
If I’m honest I’ll admit that I don’t really like coffee, although it’s also fair to say I don’t dislike it either. But I certainly cherish what it’s brought to my life.
