Today, while preparing my coffee, I realized it was more than just a morning boost of courage. It’s a ritual, something I do that starts my day, whether my body is ready to start or not. This ritual of grinding dark, oily, fragrant beans, and filling the pot with cold, filtered water. I anxiously wait for the bell to ring as it finishes the cycle. I’m mesmerized. Time stands still.
As I wait, I think about pouring that inky black goodness into my heavy porcelain cup, sitting it on my saucer and carrying it to the table. Then I grab the tiny, white porcelain pitcher, just big enough to hold the creamy half and half I’m going to weave into this beautiful obsidian pool.
Sitting at the table, looking at this cup of what others consider just a cup of coffee, I start the ritual of pouring the milky white cream into the depths of it’s oily blackness. It swirls, dripping to the bottom, rising to the top, creating a chocolate color that is beauty in itself.
Before the first sip, I sniff and inhale the aroma of roasted beans, mixed with water and cream, that has created this perfume of notes. Some bitter chocolate; mixed with brown sugar and earth.
Like the hummingbirds seeking sugary juice on my deck, coffee is the nectar of morning.
Swallowing, my tongue is coated like dew-covered grass, with a fragrant, heady, almost erotic, awakening of senses. My taste buds spring to life, my throat welcomes the rush of heat and my body takes in the organic electricity that is caffeine, awakening my brain.
It’s my private morning ritual, setting the tone for my day.