Coffee: The recipient of my unrequited love.
I crave it every morning and adore the whole routine. I unzip the bag to inhale the scent of the beans and tilt it until the beans dance into the grinder. The obnoxious whirring ensues as the blades reduce the beans to tiny fragments. The aroma rises as I remove the lid and I take another slow whiff. I dump the fresh grinds into the filter and fill the back of the coffeemaker to the predetermined level. Like magic, the clear water morphs into chestnut-colored concoction that drips into the pot below. Anxiously, I wait for the trickles to cease. I fancy up the java with cream, the color swirls and changes again. I sweeten it with a squeeze from the honey belly and tap cinnamon onto the top. The first steamy sip slips down my throat. Aahhhh. Good morning.
Here's where the relationship gets tricky. I'm never hungry when I wake up. My belly does not appreciate coffee and gets especially irritated by its arrival when it's empty. I have suffered through too many cases of self-induced coffee-stomach to avoid the truth: I shouldn't drink coffee. Yet I still do. I should avoid caffeine, but it's so hard to resist.
My ramblings sound like the mad thoughts of an addict. Dammit.
I pondered all of this as I enjoyed a homemade mocha. I melted Lindt truffles in milk to create a frothy mixture to add to my coffee. It was divine.
As I savored the last sip, I discovered this at the bottom of my mug.
Maybe coffee loves me after all.