Coffee

My father introduced me to coffee, not the drinking of it, the enjoyment of it. He would stir at his recliner and sip his coffee while reading the paper, or just listening to the news. The cup was hot, black and well sweetened. He would not let me drink from his cup when i was very small, but i was allowed a good smell as he held it to my nose so i would not burn myself.

It was a smell i as yet cannot describe, but that seemed to enliven the senses. He would share it with friends, he would have a cup on his own, and most importantly he would make sure to let you know if it was a lousy cup of coffee. It often was when we would be out. The fancier the place the lousier the coffee it would seem. Few were the times he would praise a cup of coffee. It would happen rarely even at home.

The serving of the coffee therefore took on an air of suspense as it was served and brought to my father’s side. He would let it settle for a while before adding some sugar and taking the first sip. His eyes would close and i waited for either the smile of appreciation or the grimace which indicated, this, was not going to be a good cup, and likely not a good evening.

When i was old enough to bring him his coffee in the evenings, it was a task i dreaded after a few tries, i would watch the coffee move back and forth in the cup praying it would not spill, which it inevitably would the more i stared at it. It was best to not watch it as i cautiously walked to father’s chair. It was better to simply trust it would all be there when i arrived, and that he would like it. I seemed to have little control over both those things.

I prefer then to get my own coffee…and i promise to always enjoy it…or pretend that it is wonderful.