Cold Coffee

Every morning at a quarter to 6, I side-eye my steamless mug with resentment. I hate when the last bit of my morning coffee goes room temperature, and I have to decide between drinking cold coffee and elongating my experience, or dumping it and missing out on my much-needed caffeine dose. 

 

It sits there, mocking me.

 

You could say, “hey just make a fresh pot,” but I then feel guilty for having too much caffeine. I wonder if I should save my second cup for the afternoon when I need to revive my zest for life, when I need to reward myself for being human and doing the whole human thing really well. 

 

And before you tell me to drink out of a Yeti or some other insulated container, no. It makes the coffee taste like battery acid. Did I mention I drink my coffee black? I don’t do this because I am trying to be better than you. My mom has sipped nothing but black, medium roast coffee from scalding mugs her entire life, and I so badly wanted to be like my mom - still do! She is my hero. 

 

So, at the age of 12, I started waking before the sun to have coffee with my mom before the bus came. It was my favorite time of day. Back then, I was drinking 50% milk, 50% coffee, and I grimaced with every sip. But then I started to acquire a taste for it, and by my sophomore year of high school, I was downing the mugs black like a champ.

 

By then, I had spent countless mornings watching my mom dump her half-full cups of coffee down the drain and refill them to ensure the temperature of every sip was just shy of mouth-burning. I found myself starting to do the same. 

 

I am not one of those pompous assholes who thinks preferring vanilla dolce lattes makes you weak. I love sugar like the rest of us. There is just something about a black, medium roast that feels like a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek before school, deep talks as the sun rises while the rest of the world is asleep, and learning how to accept the bitterness of life until it fosters strength. 

 

With all that said, I refuse to drink out of an insulated mug, because it irrevocably changes the taste of my beans to the point where I actually consider adding some honey and whole milk (my go to coffeeshop latte). And in the wee hours of the morning when I am dressing myself and deciding who I want to be, I refuse to drink anything other than piping hot, black, medium roast coffee from a ceramic diner mug. 

 

So, by 6 o’clock you will find me in sneakers, savoring my second pot of coffee, as I go for my sunrise walk and call my mom.