Still Warm

The coffee grinder roars to life, echoing down the sleepy apartment hallway and into the room I share with my brother. Trailing behind is the coffee maker’s burble followed closely by a bitter assault on my nostrils. As a child of the 80s, cartoons and sugary cereal round out my morning over this caffeine ritual I don’t fully understand, but coffee still manages to secure a reputation: familiar, warm and comforting.

Its aroma is cozy childhood mornings. Road trip pit stop refills. Starbucks study breaks. First dates. After dinner conversation. One by one, these become casualties of either time or COVID, but coffee does not.

Ironically enough, I grow up never drinking coffee, scoffing at Coffee Crisp, secretly proud that I survive sleepy university paper writing evenings and nine years of bleary eyed parenting—all without coffee.

This has changed.

I blame the pandemic.

(I also blame the fun size Coffee Crisp bars that are always leftover from the Halloween Fun Pack.)

Grasping for familiarity, warmth, and comfort in a year filled with everything else, I could have landed on sourdough or a victory garden; instead, I reach for the occasional coffee.

From crunchy instant latte packages I tear open and swirl into hot water, I graduate to a pour over coffee maker, the coffee filters originally purchased as craft supplies, decaf grounds and a cafe au lait recipe from Pinterest. It’s creamy, acrid, sweet and alien in my kitchen. It’s maybe even a little comforting.

I reach a new low when my eight year old wanders into the kitchen to remark, “It smells like Tim Horton’s in here!”

(I should also mention I haven’t quite decided if I think coffee is actually any good.)

In the midst of our typical daily chaos, there’s occasionally a slice of afternoon left for silence and coffee, just as the late winter sun casts shadows across my living room. Usually, the girls head outside after homeschool lessons, lunch and clean up.

Miss four year old informs me she only goes outside “on sunny days and snowy days.” Today is both so I boil the water optimistically, anticipate the silence, and direct the children to the mudroom where their snowsuits are waiting patiently.

But they don’t all want to go out. Miss four wants to play inside (with me preferably). There will be no quiet today.

Our quests for comfort clash.

She pulls out the giant marble run set. The pieces clatter as she teeters towards me. I grumble inwardly and promise I’ll join her as she opens the box.

We settle in to build, cuddled up on the couch. I wrap my hands around the warm mug. I take a sip. The coffee is still warm.