Ode to Coffee
I was nearly 30 before I developed a full appreciation for coffee. But my liking for it flows back all the way to my childhood. Dad would retreat to the laundry, just off the kitchen, to have his morning instant and a ciggie, opening the window to let out the fumes. I’d discover his coffee mug after he had gone to work, and would drain the dregs of his sugary, milky brew. I guess that’s where my appreciation of a cuppa joe - the smell, the hit, the ritual, the taste – stemmed from. We have been drinking it for generations. Arabs drink theirs black and fragrant in shot-glass proportions with a side of medjool dates. Parisiennes drink it with or sans milk, paired with a croissant for breakfast. In Singapore they like to add condensed milk to make Kopi-C, which is handy if you have run out of milk and don’t mind sweeter stuff. In Africa, sweetened and spiced with maybe a little brandy or white rum. American pop culture tells us police like to dunk donuts in theirs. Coffee is the daytime