I can always hear the beginnings of coffee before I can smell them. My Dad’s feet brush against the wooden floors as he sleepily shuffles to the kitchen, not quite lifting them to take full steps. He fusses around his corner of the kitchen, the spot where he drops his briefcase on the floor, and his coffeemaker rests on the table space above. Unfolding one of his many foil bags, he pours out a stream of beans, and they rattle into a plastic container. A few seconds later, the coffee grinder revs to life. The gruelling sounds of the motor––eeeeerr––travel into the living room, over the upstairs banister, and into my oasis of sleep. Sometimes I can roll over and fall asleep, but usually the sounds of coffee beckon me toward consciousness even before the drink has touched my lips. I’m officially awake.
When I was young, and my parents had still successfully written off coffee as an “adult drink”––“Caffeine is a drug,” my dad would say in between sips––the sound was temporal. It came every morning, along with my mom moving the curtains across the rod to let in sunlight and murmurs of early conversation before the whole house was up.
As I grew, so did my interest in coffee. The whir of the grinder, funnelling the fragrant beans into a coarse powder, became less abstract. I heard it as an invitation.
Like so many middle schoolers in my generation, I dabbled at first. My earliest coffee experiences were in the form of frappuccinos; cream and sugar with just a hint of espresso. It took me a while to realize that the ever-trendy (for its time) Cotton Candy Frappuccino was not, in fact, coffee-based at all.
My initial attraction to the drink was most definitely social. During my junior and senior years of high school, I watched my friends set thermoses of coffee on our designated lunch table, where we waited each morning for the first bell to ring. Then, I started to do the same. My favorite mom-and-pop spot in my hometown became Factory Fuel, a pottery kiln-turned-café whose coffee is far too strong for me but who I continue to support anyway. My sister and I take coffee runs with the same reverence and regularity that others attend church. Sometimes, I don’t even order. It’s as if I’m able to absorb and reflect the love that she has for coffee, just by watching her enjoy it.
Whenever I’m at home, I relish the cranking gears and occasional java scent that wafts its way up to my room. Unlike when I’m on my own or at school, my dad’s coffee doesn’t ask anything of me. No hike to the nearest Starbucks or dining hall, no bills to be forked over. I need only head down our carpeted staircase before my dad calls out cheerily, “There’s coffee!”
For all his resistance in years past, he loves that my sister and I are invested in his favorite drink. A caffeine dependence seems a small price to pay for the unfailing presence of the steaming beverage every morning and the chance to share it.
When I smell coffee, my first thoughts might be scattered. Filtering through my to-do list for the day, eyeing the shade of brown inside my mug to determine whether or not more cream is needed, mulling over breakfast options. But, beneath those surface-level concerns rests the presence of one person: Dad.