Ruminations on Coffee & Teenage Lust
Like the average American, to regain consciousness after sleep and strange dreams, I require coffee first thing in the morning. I can't think of a better way to orient myself than the aroma of fresh grounds, the liquid taste and temperature, the steam that rolls off its filmy surface, warming my skin and temporarily steaming up my glasses.
It’s a rather rote process at this point—nighttime preparations involve washing and drying the coffee pot, weighing out 72.4 ounces of whole beans (an extra 2oz for strength and .4 just because I like the number), folding a stupid expensive but worthwhile Chemex coffee filter like a piece of precious origami before shoving it into the basket.
In the morning, still half asleep, I flip on the grinder and walk over to grab my repurposed Chemex coffeemaker from behind the sink and fill it up with water. Said water gets poured into the coffee machine’s water reservoir, and by this time, the beans have been smashed into a powdery grind perfection. Once that's tossed into the filter, it's just a matter of switching on the coffee machine.
Coffees in Costa Rica, 📸 July 2013
I guess it's fine that I've turned an addiction into a ritual. Or maybe it's the ritual that's become an addiction. Either way, from start to finish, it's all very satisfying. It's funny, though, thinking back to a time when I didn't like coffee. Hated it and all of its properties. That is, of course, until a boy changed my mind.
Teenage lust is a powerful, unpredictable thing, a display of determination, savviness, and strength—also absolute capitulation, crumbling, and lack of self-control. At 17, I was still holding out on coffee, choosing instead to enjoy lemon water and diet soda when hanging with friends or family at various Jersey diners and Wawa stores. Nothing and nobody could or would change my mind.
[Ahem] Except for a boy several towns over from me who happened to like coffee, who I happened to like very much. He called me one day to see if I wanted to meet him for late-night coffee. This our first would-be date, I didn't think twice before agreeing to everything. I drove 45 minutes to a diner I'd never been to—truly in the middle of nowhere—to stomach a drink I'd never liked, always refused.
At the diner, he took his coffee black, no sugar, so I did too. He ordered more, and I followed suit. No food, no water, just coffee. I told him I loved coffee (fucking loved it), and drank it down like I’d been drinking coffee my whole life, like it wasn't the very first time. I was so anxious I barely tasted it, barley noticed the smell or temperature. Six cups later, our date ended and I was on cloud nine-thousand. I got a kiss goodbye, hopped into my Cabriolet, and drove home.
About five minutes into driving, my brain skyrocketing from burning love, excitement, and too much caffeine, those six cups of coffee reached my bladder. So enamored by my date, it hadn’t occurred to me to use the bathroom before heading back. Another 35 minutes of driving passed, and by this time I was sweating, dying, and speeding—I had to put the pedal to the metal before I pissed my pants.
Ralph Steiner, Eight O'Clock Coffee, 1935
Just another five minutes, I assured and plead to myself. Then a pair of flashing red and blue lights appeared in my rear-view mirror. Fuuuck! This wasn't how the night was supposed to end, me pissing myself while handcuffed in the back of a police car. That fucking coffee! I exclaimed as I watched the cop slowly climb out of his car, as if there was all the time in the world. Winding my window down, I rapidly produced my driver's license and insurance for him.
A few minutes into examining my documents, the officer asked me if I was so-and-so’s daughter. To my sheer luck and surprise, I was indeed so-and-so’s daughter. Who this man was and how he knew my mother, I had no clue and didn't care, my aching bladder telling me there was zero time to find out. The cop actually let me go, which to this day I find insane. One, I’m not a particularly lucky person, and two, regardless of the late hour, I was driving 15 miles over the speed limit.
I drove the rest of the way home at a crawling speed, which my bladder bemoaned but my brain demanded; there was no fucking way this journey would be further interrupted and delayed if I could help it. Home at last, I sprinted to the toilet, daydreaming of relief, diners, nice boys, and late nights. Perhaps coffee wasn't so bad after all.