Back home, my kitchen is renowned. Not for the surplus of copper pots hanging from the parallel colonial barn beams crossing the ceiling, each one containing the story of a dish prepared for a gourmand somewhere in my mother’s culinary history. Not for the generations of stories seeped within the cracks of the wooden butcher’s block that were told over late nights leaning upon our island counter. Not even for the overflowing bins of munchies and sweets that border the granite countertop walls, a maze of fingerprints belonging to the hungry teenagers whose constant traffic has donned us the new “Grand Central.”
No, our distinction stems from the 24-hour coffee pot from Cuisinart that sits spatially sandwiched between the stove and the sink. A normally inconspicuous machine of white-turned-tan from the stain of incessant brewing, in any other household it would be commonplace. To all those whose paths cross our way, from the UPS man and the crossing guard to the friends deemed “stopper-inners” as they pilgrimage to the center of town, it is a known fact that coffee flows like minutes where I come from.
Cups of the rich, strong brew, dark like cocoa, are served, sipped from, or just slowly savored—cradled in the palm with two fingers laced into the handle, the mug’s warmth enveloping its holder like a personal heater—everywhere in our old red Colonial house. The building’s history gives it character, which creates little alcoves, each one containing a perfect coffee spot. Open-air windowsills, a dusty corner bookshelf, the brick and ash-covered hearth of a pot-bellied woodstove, or the security of a novel-laden nightstand all seem to need the warm weight of a brimming cuppa joe. Even if empty, there is an inexplicable comfort in the mug’s presence, brown-rimmed and clanging with a cinnamon-spotted spoon rolling around the concavity.
The cinnamon shaken on top transcends the boundaries of flavored coffee; it is a coffee condiment. Often paired with a sprinkle of cocoa, it is a serving suggestion inspired by the Mexicans. Never before thought to be an aphrodisiac, the insinuation of coffee from my lips was once the clincher to solidify the grounds of a great relationship. “So, do you have any half-and-half?” I’d said, leaning in close to drink in the brown coffee bean eyes of my neighbor, the connoisseur. His response: “Well, I’ll tell you what we have. We’ve got whole milk, heavy cream, skim milk, and yes, some half-and-half. Does any of that sound good to you?” Grinning, I knew I had stumbled upon a man worth keeping in my life, cozily stored in my heart like the mélange of cups aligning my cupboard shelves. Later, we’d share life stories over steaming cups and sprawled papers across the dining room table, measuring each passing hour in coffee spoons.
