Ode to Coffee

 

I have nothing but praise for you, coffee. Some describe you as  soot, some describe you as bitter, but they misunderstand you. You’re not soot, you’re far more alive and joyful than that, and you’re not bitter but you’re witty and justifiably cynical.

Whenever I have to do something, whether it be get a coach without losing my possessions or write a 4,000 word essay, or revise the Spanish grammar I always neglect to learn until the last minute, you are there.

When I pull an all night study sesh and my eyes are closing shut as I read the dull, clunky drivel I’ve written, and as I’m looking for my references that have mysteriously disappeared into the abyss, you are there. You’re there when I drunk too much the night before, and I’ve got a pounding headache and a load of regrets.

The smell of you punctuates long Sunday mornings and rushed Monday ones. You’re not seasonal, you last all year. In winter I like you warm and frothy, in summer I like you icy. Sometimes you’re fantastic untouched, just a cup of long-lasting joy and pain, at other times I want you short and snappy like my patience levels.

Sitting in an airport, just got through security, the gate’s not been announced? Coffee-warm and fluffy, you deserve it. Slept through an important lecture or meeting and irritated by that fact? Coffee, black americano, long-lasting joy and pain Woke up and you smell of spilt wine, and so does your bed? Coffee- americano,long-lasting joy and pain to begin with, followed by a warm and frothy cappuccino and topped up by espressos in between Deadline? Espressos, short snappy, quickly drunk

No matter the situation, you always provide.

Sometimes I find you perfectly made in a small artisan shop, sometimes it’s just a guy with a cart and a lot of talent who offers you up, sometimes it’s an overpriced coffee from a chain or the university café but when I’m rushing to a lecture or at Victoria Coach Station, you’ll suffice.

In Bristol they offer them up with fancy designs, right-on values and a hipster beard, in Spain they serve them con leche or solo and with a pincho (because tortilla), in France it’s an espresso and a newspaper, and time to contemplate life.

Wherever I go coffee, you are there. Best of all is the anticipation as I wait to see how you turn out. Maybe you’ll be bitter and depressing, well-balanced and delicious, or strong and that’s a metaphor for the day to come. What matters is that we live the moments together coffee, and that we’ll do till death do us part.