Ode to coffee on a lazy Sunday morning

His words still haunt my mind to this day, though they were spoken with good intentions almost four months ago.

"Maybe you should give up coffee."

**shudder**

He said it with my well-being in mind, concerned about the short and long-term effects of caffeine on my body. He might as well have been suggesting that I donate an eyeball to science. I experienced a full-fledged fight-or-flight response, torn between passionately arguing the benefits of coffee or fleeing with my brand new deluxe coffee maker under my arm. My breathing became shallow, I experienced heart palpitations, and a feeling of anxiety overwhelmed me.

Because the coffee maker was brewing my drug of choice and I was still in my pijamas, I decided to stay and make my case. The adrenaline rush I experienced compensated for the lack of caffeine in my system, and I took a deep breath to steady myself.

For a moment, I considered ennumerating the health benefits of coffee ("Ummm, it keeps me from falling asleep at the wheel and crashing into oncoming traffic?"), launching into a passionate speech about java's place in history ("The Mayans drank it, it's in my genes! Yes, I know my roots are in Spain, but I was born in Mexico, damn it!"), or, as any good addict would do, denying my dependence ("I can quit at any time...I just choose not to.")

Instead, I decided to hit him where it hurt. "Would you give up chocolate?" I asked, fighting fire with fire. His eyes widened, his pupils dilated, his hands gripped the counter. Nothing more was said as I smugly poured myself a cup of coffee and triumphantly padded out of the kitchen in my furry slippers.

My love affair with coffee began before I was old enough to drink it. I awoke every day at dawn to the ruckus made by my father as he ground fresh coffee beans and pounded the previous day's coffee grinds from the espresso machine's filter holder into the trash. To this day, my father drinks two espressos (is the plural of espresso "espressi"? Like "biscotti" is to "biscotto"?) at 5:00am before sitting down to meditate. I can't get my hands to stop shaking or my mouth to stop yacking after two espressos, yet the man can sit cross-legged for an hour to explore his subconscious mind. After dinner, while most people enjoy a cup of herbal tea to calm the body and spirit before bedtime, my father soothes his nerves with yet another espresso. Twenty minutes later, he's sound asleep. My hero. :)

My first taste of coffee came in the form of a clandestine sip from my father's favorite espresso cup while my mother wasn't looking. The shock of bitterness quickly gave way to a complex bouquet that stayed on my tongue and perfumed my nostrils. It wasn't long before I was ordering an espresso alongside my father at restaurants, and another coffee lover was born. To the amazement of most people, I have always shunned sugar, cream and milk. We are a rare breed, us coffee purists.

I treat my coffee maker the way people with emphysema revere their oxygen tank.
*When I went off to college in Switzerland with my best friend, the very first thing we purchased for our dorm room was a coffee maker.
*When I rented my first apartment after college, the first item to grace my kitchen counter was the coffee maker.
*When I lived with my brother we didn't have furniture, but we had a $350 coffee maker.
*When I got married, I registered for a $700 coffee maker (which nobody got for us).
*Whenever I move to a new home, the first item out of the moving boxes is the coffee maker.
*When I left my husband, I took only my clothes, shoes, and coffee maker.
*I was invited to a country cottage recently, and I took my coffee maker with me.
*The first gift T. gave me was a coffee maker.

When my dog pounces on me in bed, indicating that another day is dawning and she simply must greet it with a celebratory pee, coffee serves as the carrot on the stick that gets me out from under the warm sheets. Please don't ask me what transpires in the mornings between the time I wake up and the moment I have my first sip of coffee, because I have no recollection. I refuse to be held responsible for anything I say or do during this haze. Coffee acts on my day like the scene in the "Wizard of Oz" where Dorothy opens the door of her displaced black-and-white house and steps into a Technicolor world.

I believe drug addicts call this feeling a "high".

Yet, I am not an addict. I can quit at any time...Really...I just choose not to. Now, excuse me while I go for more coffee.