A Tale of Two Coffees
How coffee became my new partner in crime.
I’ve never been one for drinking coffee. Coffee for me was a drink of adults and that is how I saw it as I grew up. Why would you drink this bitter tasting liquid? Yuck.
Yes, those were my thoughts on coffee, and somewhere at the back of my head I still think the same. But as I went through the rigours of life, I found there were times when my body needed something extra to go on. May it have been an all-nighter to study for the morning exam or the last-minute string-everything-together tomorrow-is-the-project-submission run, coffee was a welcome drink at such times. The caffeine in it woke me up and made me do things I would not have been able to do without.
But I still never really understood the effects of coffee, nor did I ever relish its exquisite taste. My mom—who is more of a tea person—made me coffee, and truthfully I never liked them. They tasted ewwkk, and I can honestly say I drank them only for boost in productive power that I thought it created. That coffee was okay (I’m no coffee connoisseur, but I can tell good from bad), but it wasn’t great.
Enter Coffee Machine.
My father bought a coffee machine—Nespresso—and I like a curious child went around tinkering with it. In a couple of days, I mastered the art of making a perfect cup of coffee from that machine. It was during those days that I was having difficulty in beginning the book I was writing. No forget the book, I was having difficulty in beginning to write anything. I would sit in front of my computer and stare at the blank white rectangle in front of my eyes with the blinking cursor mocking me by hiding away and reappearing again. It was hell, during those days when I could hardly manage to get out a few words, all of which I would deem unworthy and foolish.
The coffee worked like wonders. It shot straight through me and gave me a boost of energy with which my fingers would go flying over the keyboard. After tasting this machine made coffee, I realised that I have never had good coffee before, and this really was something good. I started drinking coffee everyday. I would make a cup for either just me or a few cups if my parents were around and wanted one (for only I tinker with any appliance they think is too complicated). I would sit down with my cup and fire up my word processor. In a few moments I’d find myself gaining momentum as I write and spew words on a blank page that had refused to be filled by me earlier. Soon the story I was writing started shaping itself.
Coffee has been my steadfast companion since then, and I taste the coffee in every coffee shop I go to, but never do I find the exquisite taste that I get from the coffee I make for myself (maybe I’m just not going to the right places?). The rush of words that take place while I am riding my ‘coffee high’ is amazing. If I ever go out to meet my friends after I’ve had a cup they look at me askew, because of all the foolish antics I end up doing because I have a rush of energy flowing in my bloodstreams.
I am now another addict to this deliciously disgusting liquid we call coffee.
(I do add sugar to my coffee; to sate both, my sweet tooth and my childhood hatred of that foul liquid. Ewwkk)