Coffee

She was hiding. Sitting on the rock on the beach outside our little cottage. We thought it was a game—“where is mum?” “I found her!” some little voice would call out and my mother with laugh. She was sitting there early in the morning on her rock or the steps down to the beach with her cigarette and coffee.

The desire to sit and think quietly at the beginning of the day is everyone’s desire—I think. I too have a morning ritual which only involves coffee, although I understand and appreciate the joy of smoking. Coffee for us is the one sacred thing that binds us together as a family.

One brother makes pots and pots of espresso with an Italian stove top espresso pot with lots of hot milk.
The other brother must use a “coffee maker” nothing fancy, but it must be plugged in. It must require a paper filter.
My sister, always the gourmet, must have something special—a coffee grinder AND electric drip coffee maker in one.
I…I am closer to my mother. I fill a tea kettle (nothing fancy) with water and go take a shower. When I return I poor the boiling water into my no-name, insulated, French coffee press. I put the top on to let the caffeine and flavor seep into the water. I put my coffee mug on the burner I had just used to heat the water. I put a big spoonful of sugar in the cup. I wait…perhaps I wash dishes, perhaps I put contact lens in…but soon—the coffee is ready and I press the plunger down. In my warm cup, I pour the beautiful dark coffee and leave a lot of room for whole, organic milk. If the weather permits--I go outside and let the little hens wander around the grass as I watch the day begin