This morning, my husband said to me, "I didn't roast any coffee yet and we're out of emergency beans. Would you like tea this morning?"
I felt my vision narrow into a grey-hazed tunnel and my body curl into itself. "Help?" I moaned weakly. "Coffee?"
Tea would just not cut it. Don't get me wrong -- I love tea, from the deep earthy murk of pu-er to the light fragrance of a Chinese green. I drink Darjeeling the way others drink wine -- literally, because I'm no longer allowed to drink alcohol. It's just that tea doesn't have the body, the mouth feel, the fortifying nature of coffee. Tea is an afternoon indulgence; coffee is a trusty helper.
I am not a coffee addict. Truly I am not. I can quit anytime I want ... except, apparently, this morning. Because I begged my husband to go out and get some coffee, and here I sit, now drinking the elixir of life. Richard is the hero of this piece by bringing me coffee.
No comments:
Post a Comment
I believe that everyone here comes with good intent. If you come to spoil my assumptions by verbal abuse, excessive profanity, spam or other abuses I had not considered, I reserve the right to delete your notes or delete your participation. I am the arbiter of what violates good intent.