My Ode to Coffee

Back in 2021, I wrote this essay to express a small joy in trying times. I then promptly forgot about it. Recently, I stumbled across it while looking for something else on my computer. Somehow, it still seems relevant (both in the “global despair” part and in the continued love of coffee) - so here’s my first post into the void. Fellow coffee lovers unite!

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Like many people these days, I’ve been trying to stay positive in the face of global despair. Of all the self-help books and positivity blogs I’ve read, one of the top suggestions always seems to be writing a list of things for which you are grateful. After coming across this advice time and again, each time rolling my eyes at the cheesiness of it all, I finally decided to give it a shot. Staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to assuage the feelings of embarrassment at being such a stereotype, I began my list.

There are many small things for which I am grateful in life, but when pen hits paper, it turns out my number one is a warm cup of coffee in the morning. So this essay is my ode to coffee, a small thing that brings me great joy in a sometimes joyless world.

Anyone who knew me in my mid- to late-20s would be shocked to learn that I was once an avid morning person. It could be a family trait that I was late to rebel against; both my parents like to rise before the sun. But there was a time when I too enjoyed the masochism of an early morning wake-up call.

Back in high school, my two characteristics of procrastination and perfectionism perfectly intertwined to create a less than productive work ethic. I would come home from school, plop myself in front of the computer, turn on Lizzie McGuire, and play online games. I’d be heedless to my mother’s requests to walk the dog or set the table, and also to the pile of homework sitting next to me.

I knew, even while avoiding work, that my brain always shuts off promptly at nine. I was never able to function properly in the evening. It’s as if rational thought abandons me and all that remains is a dense fog and a constant buzzing through which no ideas can penetrate. I’m the polar opposite of a night owl, fancying myself more an evening sloth, so all bets at writing the essay were off once the clock hit nine.

Despite knowing this, I’d lounge around after dinner, IM a few friends to see “sup”, and annoy my older siblings. Before I knew it, it was eight-thirty and I still had a report on Macbeth due the next day. Rather than doing the sensible thing of buckling down and getting started, I figured it was only thirty minutes till total mind melt-down, so I may as well walk the dog.

When bedtime hit, the anxious perfectionist within came to life. I would lie awake thinking there was no way I was not submitting an essay, and if I was submitting an essay then it had to be A-worthy. Thus the only logical conclusion was to set my alarm for 4am and get it done then.

The next morning, my radio alarm eased me back to life with the soothing sounds of “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers. Grudgingly I woke up, went downstairs, and began examining the fascinating topic of how weather patterns predicted Duncan’s death.

At five-thirty sharp, my parents made their way downstairs. My mother, who at any other point in the day is an absolute delight, is more like a zombie before her morning coffee- she communicates mostly in grunts and points, and can’t look you in the eye without it evidently causing her pain. Since I can remember, the most sacred rule of our house was to never talk to my mom until her coffee needs were met. Most of the time, that was easy to do, since her first cup was done well before I was awake.

This time, the surprise I gave her by already being awake caused her to speak up.

“Whatreyoudoingups’early?” She asked in a mumbled tone, a stark reminder she was still in zombie mode.

Averting my gaze, I took a chance and broke the Cardinal House Rule, “I’ve got an essay due this morning I haven’t finished.”

My mother nodded in acknowledgment and shuffled off to the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief that we conversed without mishap, and assumed that was the end of our interaction until her coffee was finished. But a few minutes later, I heard the sounds of shuffling get close again, and there she appeared with a mug in hand. She placed it next to the computer, muttered “mocha”, turned, and headed back to the kitchen to humanize herself.

And just like that, a lifetime love affair was born.

With a dash of caffeine and a load of chocolate powder, my mother opened my life up to the magical world of coffee addiction. Holding that warm mug of almost-coffee made me feel more adult-like, more mature than anything I had felt before. I was a serious person now. Sure, lots of teens drink Coors Light and Smirnoff Ice, but I was extra cool because I liked coffee.

Throughout high school, my poor habits saw me awake at ungodly hours more frequently than was normal for a teenager who was supposed to enjoy sleeping in till noon. A routine was established where every morning I woke up early, my wonderful zombie mom would brew me a hot mocha. Thankfully the system worked, since though the anxiety of leaving work till the last minute was often overwhelming, I always managed to pull off my best grades during those morning hours.

Even so, if the haunting, panic-inducing nightmares from unfinished homework taught me anything, I’d forgotten it all by the time I started university. While others stayed up studying for their exams, I fell asleep at nine and set my alarm for three. As I left my residence, I felt like I was taking the morning shift as I passed my fellow beleaguered students on their way home from the library.

My preferred place to work was a coffee shop down the street that was open 24/7. There, in the early hours of the day, the only company I kept were some homeless individuals who came in to escape the cold of winter or the heat of summer. It was my place of comfort.

Coffee took on a new meaning to me following graduation. At my first job after school, coffee represented the epitome of a hard working, woman-in-charge. I couldn’t see myself as important without rushing around from meeting to meeting with a coffee in hand. As long as I had my coffee, I could face any emergency that came up that day. I could deal with those tough phone calls and put up with the crazy deadlines. I believed people would pass me on the street as I raced between buildings, holding my cup, and think, “Now there’s a woman who knows what she wants. She must be going places.”

As I established myself in various neighbourhoods around Toronto, coffee shops became a part of my routine so ingrained that I was a regular at whatever one was closest to my apartment. The baristas and I would be on a first name basis. Oftentimes, they would have my order ready before I even reached the front of the line.

At one job, my company had no central office so I worked from home. Or in my case, from the coffee shop down the street. I became such good friends with the owners that they gave me leftovers at the end of the day and encouraged me to use their space as a de facto office.

Wherever I travel, to this day, the first thing I do is scout out the nearest source of coffee to my lodgings. It’s a thing common in most parts of the world and makes me feel less disconnected from where I am. I feel almost familiar with a place once I’ve found the local coffee hub, like I’m less an intruder and more a welcome guest. It’s a place I can practice my poor attempts at speaking the local language, often butchering it but feeling proud to try.

When I go camping, I pack as many instant coffee packets as there are days. In the calm mornings, surrounded by wild mountains, rushing waterfalls or mystical woods, I undergo my daily ritual of having my mug and taking in the world around me. It centres me while it prepares me for whatever the day has in store.

A year ago, I was given a fancy espresso machine. The gift happened to coincide with the onset of COVID-19. All at once, normality was thrown out the window. Routine was upended and everything felt chaotic. But while the world seemed to fall apart, I took solace in the consistency of a morning routine. Shops were closed and there were no friendly baristas for morning banter, but I had this one, small constant of a delicious cup of coffee. I used to laugh when people said, “it’s the little things”. Such a cliché! Truly, this year has taught us that sometimes the little things are all we have.

Now, whenever I have a bad day and can think of nothing to be happy about, I remember holding a hot mug of coffee, drinking it in bed as I read the days’ news. I remember the sense of maturity it gave me at a time of great insecurity. I remember how comfortable and powerful having a cup can make me feel. Sometimes it’s the only thing throughout the day that seems to go right, but as small as it is and as ridiculous as it sounds, this little thing has brought sanity and joy into daily life.

And for that, I am grateful.