Love letter to a beverage

Dear Coffee,

I love you.  I love you more than just about any beverage in the world.  I love you in any climate, at any time of the day, with a big dollop of milk and at least one sugar.  Sometimes I love you with regular milk, and sometimes with condensed.  Mostly I like you hot, but I am happy to have you iced, you just need more sugar that way.  I like to make you with my French press, I like to make you with my coffee maker.  I like to drink you in fancy restaurants and humble sandwich shops.  I draw the line, most of the time, at ordering you in cafs, because that’s not really you.  You’re not made with crystals.  You’re better than that.

I would like to formally apologise for the times I complained about you at places like Denny’s in Port Huron or Johnny’s Coney in Detroit.  Yes, you were not at your best then, but were certainly not at your worst.  I would like to thank you for the times we have had together in Italy and France and Spain and the Dominican Republic.  That morning we spent on the terrace in Lipari. Oh, it was a thing of beauty, all sea views, homemade cakes, kittens twining round my legs, and you, dark and rich and wonderful .  Also the Sunday mornings at M Henry in Chicago, or even the Deluxe Diner.  Or even just sitting with Dana on our back porch on Rosemont.

Oh, Coffee, we’ve had some fine times together.  I don’t even mind paying £2 for you most mornings on my way into work these days, because the free stuff from that machine in the office kitchen, it’s a pale imitation of the full flavoured beauty found at the Italian cafe on the corner.  It’s worth the cash.  YOU’RE worth the cash.

I remember, Coffee, how I used to struggle through a mug of you when we first became acquainted, back in 1993.  I was young, my palate untested.  I added creamer after creamer to you in order to hide your flavour.  But, Coffee, I learned and I grew and now I understand.  And I know I stopped drinking you for a few sad years in the early Oughts when my stomach was giving me troubles, but that wasn’t about you Coffee, it was never your fault, it was all me and my traitorous digestive system.

There’s no real reason for this letter, I just want you to know that you are loved.  Deeply, powerfully loved.  I want you to know that I don’t take you for granted, not ever, and that I appreciate everything you do for me.

You’re the best Coffee.  Never change.

Love,

Carolyn

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