The Truth about My Coffee

I wanted to like coffee.  I wanted to want it.  It just looked so sophisticated, so conversational, to hold a coffee cup in my hand.  I wanted to be in the club.

 

I wanted a collection of eclectic cups, and a reason to use them.  I wanted to know how to brew coffee, since every good hostess can brew up a pot at a moment’s notice.

 

So, I confess.  I started drinking coffee for the love of the mug.  That was my only motivation.  It’s still one of my favorite parts about the drink.

 

Robb bought me my first cup of coffee, on our first date in 1998, at Borders on The Strip in Canton, Ohio.  Cafe Mocha.  Heavy on the mocha.  What he really bought for me was a hot chocolate.  And years later I would be the one with the palate for coffee, while he never fully came around.  Also, he confessed that he hated all things bookstores, and Borders would no longer be the back drop of our marriage.

 

I heard a friend say one time, “I take my coffee like a candy bar.”  I stole the phrase and claimed it as my own.  But somewhere along the line, I became aware of how sweet was my taste.  I tried black coffee boot camp, as I called it, with the promise from my dad, “If you can go two weeks drinking black coffee, you’ll never, ever go back to cream.”

 

Maybe it’s time for me to try it again.  Then I could drink coffee anywhere.

 

“Trish, how do you take your coffee?”

 

“Strong and black.”

 

I can hear Robb’s punchline, “Just like she likes her men.”

 

Even today, though, I’m drinking a Sweet November at Fika.  Raspberry, White Chocolate, Dark Chocolate and Almond.

 

And I’m proud to say: it’s just a little two sweet for me.

 

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