It’s An Acquired Addiction

I’m on my second cup of coffee already. I don’t know what it is, but these days I’ve been craving a cup of joe nonstop. I’m not much on the whole gourmet coffee, the double this and hold the that specialties that cost more than a gallon of gas. I just like the mug full of steaming java with a packet of Sweet'N Low and something resembling creamer. I watch the steam rise from the brown meniscus and wonder if it’s still too hot to drink.

(Yep – still too hot. Just burned my tongue. Everything will taste like cardboard until Monday.)

I didn’t always like coffee. I needed a cup once when in college. I woke up early on Mother’s Day to drive to see my grandmother. I needed something to keep me focused for the two hour trip, so I dropped into Starbucks and ordered my first White Chocolate Mocha. It was caffeinated enough to keep me awake, and not-coffee-tasting enough to keep me drinking. I was hooked.

What followed were a lot more $3 cups of espressos, mochas, macchiatos, and cappuccinos. It took a few years, but eventually I made the jump to regular coffee. And once you make that leap, there’s no going back. If Lynnette and I make a special after-dinner trip to Starbucks, she’ll get the cider, and I’ll just have a tall coffee of the day. The piping hot brew beckons me to drink and dares me to get another.

But now it’s gotten bad. It will be the middle of the day and I’ll crave a cup of coffee. I will be in my car, driving with windows down, sweating just a little bit, and think, “I would love a scalding hot cup of coffee right this very second.” Once I drank coffee while eating Cheetos.

My buddy Drew and his wife drink a pot every night (after he has the equivalent throughout the day at work). Zach can’t go to work without mug in hand and can’t start work until he tops off. I know people who hate Starbucks because it isn’t Bongo Java and I know people who hate Bongo Java because it is Bongo Java. But they all love coffee.

Granted, the boom in the bean’s popularity has sparked coffee startups all over the world, some of which have been crushed by the addiction fueling machine that is Starbucks. While some think a paper cup with cardboard sleeve looks trendy, it usually makes you look like you shelled out a few bucks you could have spent on several gallons at the grocery.

Of course, I will always recommend Edgehill Studios as the best local place to get a cup. If you want to drink and work that is. They don’t harvest their own beans (they get them from Portland Brew), but they offer a full range of drinks, sandwiches, soups, beer, flat screen TVs, and a print shop. It’s a relaxing place to go and write, as I frequently did when I was beginning my book.

I’m still a coffee novice. I would love to have a sommelier’s palate regarding coffee beans, able to discern between the brews hailing from Colombia and those all the way from Kenya. I would love to be able to drink it straight and enjoy the beverage sans accoutrements. I would love to be able to get serious and care whether I was drinking Starbucks, Frothy Monkey, or Exxon Tiger Mart coffee (which is free on Mondays when the Titans win), but for now I’m in that early stage of addiction where accumulation is more important that differentiation. The quantity of my intake is prioritized above the quality of the liquid itself. I know, I suck, but coffee is so darn tasty.

One time, as my dad took me to the airport for a very early 6 AM flight, I asked him, “Is the coffee good on Continental?” He laughed and said, “Any coffee is good this early.” You don’t pay for pearls of wisdom like that, folks. And he’s right.

Last year, for about two months, some friends and I seriously toyed with the idea of opening our own coffee and pastry shop. We wanted to make money, but I really just wanted to work there and drink for free. I asked a friend what he thought of some of our ideas and marketing plans and he wrote back: “You can make money if you’re able to sell an addiction, and coffee isn’t a bad addiction to have.”

I don’t know if I’m addicted yet. I crave a cup every now and then (okay, every hour I’m awake), but I’m able to withdraw and omit the beverage from any sort of daily routine now and then. But there’s nothing like the first cup in the morning. It’s more awake than you are, and as you drink you feel as though there are really magic adrenaline powers being transferred from the Styrofoam cup to your body with each sip.

There’s nothing like the second cup either. Like seconds of anything, you don’t need it, you would probably be better without it, and you will feel sick by the time you finish it. But you’re too weak to say no and so you pour, add the sugar and cream and disappear so no one can see you feed your crazy Maxwell House habit.

By the third of fourth cup, the day is usually shot. You’re awake, but you don’t want to move. Unlike your third of fourth beer, you don’t feel like Superman or the life of the party. You feel alert, jittery, and your mind is racing. If you had to escape a burning building, however, you would throw up after about four steps. But you could sit and write about escaping a burning building for forty pages.

Lynnette and I went to Napa Valley for our first anniversary. It was neat to see the different wineries and learn what distinguishes a chardonnay from a Riesling, and a cabernet from a zinfandel. And while feeling like we belonged in the movie Sideways for a week, everyone knows that after three glasses, it all tastes the same.

And so it is with my coffee. Pour it up, my friend. I don’t care where it came from. I don’t care who made it and whether or not the water came from the toilet or the Fountain of Youth. I raise my steaming mug of caffeine juice and salute myself for acquiring a taste and an addiction all at once.