I Love the Java Jive and it Loves Me

Quick entry tonight, and on a much lighter subject than last night.
Let's talk about coffee.

Growing up, my Nana would often take us out to breakfast at a restaurant called Huckleberry Square in Burien. She would always get a cup of coffee, and she would drink it black. I remember her telling me how everywhere she went, waiters and waitresses would always ask if she'd like milk and sugar. She'd always refuse, but they would always bring it anyway. As associated with my Nana, a cup of black coffee seemed as classic as a little black dress. It's what Holly Golightly drinks with her danish as she walks down the sidewalk in the opening of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Another habitual experience with coffee growing up was with my dad. He'd take us to coffee most Saturday mornings. Whichever kids were up early enough could come with him, and get a donut and a cup of hot chocolate or steamed milk with vanilla. Or maybe we had to choose, donut or drink. I can't remember. My dad's famous rule was, "Don't come, don't get," meaning he wouldn't bring us back something if we chose to sleep; but if we came, he would give generously. There were actually many times when he would bring home donuts anyway for the kids who chose to sleep, but we knew not to expect it. All this to say, my dad's drink of choice was always, "Vente americano, no room, light ice." I remember tasting it on several different occasions, each time saying something like, "Gross, how can you drink that?"

At some point in high school, James decided he was going to start drinking coffee black. He literally made himself like it. James could always do things like that. He'd just decide, and then actually do it. I was a dreamer and an idealist, but I rarely exercised my will like that. Anyway, he decided to drink coffee black because it was an awesome thing to be able to do. Black coffee seemed so much more impressive than coffee with milk and sugar.

Ironically, I also accomplished James' plan. I think James succeeded too, though I can't remember when. I started drinking coffee with milk and sugar on occasion when I was 12 or 13; it was delicious. Then, Starbucks became a huge craze, and I switched to frappuccinos and caramel macchiatos. Then, at some point--I can't remember exactly--perhaps Junior year when I commuted to HCC and had no money, I switched to americanos. Ever since, I've been a devoted fan of cafe sin leche ni azucar.

While I may not be as much of a coffee addict as Lorelai Gilmore (we must keep striving after something, after all), I adore the drink. The smell was something I loved long before I could stand the taste. I used to open the burgundy canister that held our coffee grounds and smell it, sometimes scooping some of the contents into the coffee pot for one of my parents with the little wooden spoon that hung on the side of the canister. That smell is thousands of years old, and if you close your eyes you can feel ancient Arabia or Machu Picchu in the steaming, rich aroma. Coffee is another name for Tchaikovsky's Arabian Variation from "The Nutcracker Suite" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ua6aCFJqhQs).

Those are all the random stories related to coffee that I can recall at the moment. How it relates to living in the moment and finding color in life? I love that it's something you can experience with multiple senses. You smell the aroma, even from across the room; you see the deep brown color; you feel the heat of the steam on your face, and the smooth liquid on your lips and tongue and even down your throat; you taste the bitterness--not too harsh. It's a four-sense experience in a world where we use one sense at a time. They say one of the best ways to retain information you learn is to study it with as many of your senses as possible.

Christian application? I'm going to have to rely on my dear friend Gilbert Keith here, and say the way I drink coffee is an expression of wonder. What is wonder? I'm going to quote Professor Bruner here, and say that Wonder is one of the four elements of joy. It is manifested in curiosity and deference, and is a disposition of the body. It directly opposes boredom, distraction, and autonomy. To live in a state of wonder is to notice the amazing occurrences that surround us--to make too much of them, even. It reminds us we are not dead (for more on this, muddle through G.K. Chesterton's Manalive). Too often, we do not even realize we need that reminder.

So here's to coffee, one of those simple pleasures that allows us to take a deep breath and escape into a few moments of comfort. Tonight, it rescued me from drowning in Marxist Literary Theory.