I’ve written here before about my love/hate relationship with coffee.
I find myself firmly on the “love” side of the divide these days and, as ever, am trying to figure out what that means to me and why.
I’m constantly torn between a desire for solitude and a desire to feel a sense of connection and belonging to other people. In years past, I felt lonely and bereft of companionship, so I’d have to invent reasons and occasions to gather with others–whether it was internet dating, regular outings with girlfriends to visit weird places around the city, serving on the advisory council of my Buddhist temple, or joining a rock band.
These days I’m firmly ensconced in groups of all sorts that demand my attention in a number of ways–working 40 hours a week in an office with an open floor plan and the corresponding expectation for collaboration and conversation at the drop of a hat, weekly rehearsals with my band Pet Theories, caring for my younger autistic sister, living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with my boyfriend and our two cats, not to mention being tethered to the Internet through this blog, my Twitter and Tumblr accounts, and the various other tendrils of digital life.
Though these relationships fulfill and sustain me in marvelous way, I do find that I still need to counterbalance all that togetherness with moments of solitude wherever I can carve them out. Reliably, those moments happen during meditation in the morning and zone-out time with my headphones on while commuting to work on the CTA. Increasingly, though, I find that making and/or drinking coffee is actually an important ritual that I perform just for me.
At the risk of sounding like some cheesy commercial from the ’80s extolling the virtues of a coffee break for a busy professional woman such as myself, I do find that having a cup of coffee is a reliable indication of “me time.” My boyfriend can’t drink caffeine, so when I make it at home, the whole elaborate ritual of putting together a pour-over cup for myself marks the kitchen as my space for a precious few minutes (despite our cat Rosie’s very loud insistence that she be given her fair share of coconut cream as an even exchange for her not murdering us while we sleep).
I’ve never been a smoker but have always been envious of the socially sanctioned smoke break, where a person just has permission to quietly hang out, doing nothing but letting the world go by for a few minutes. I know the habit is expensive and that there’s an increasing crackdown on places where people are allowed to smoke peacefully and comfortably in the city, but my romantic vision of this ritual remains. Happily, I find that I get some of the same no-questions-asked latitude for time away from my desk when I declare that I need to get a cup of coffee. Office lunchroom coffee is, of course, terrible–but the stolen moments that belong to me are delicious. And increasingly necessary.
I am completely in love with this place and its no-bullshit approach to what it does. You can read plenty about owner Jonathan Ory’s bona fides and background on various culinary sites around the internet. I’m certainly no foodie so I can’t really chime in on all that, but I so appreciate the vibe that he’s created at the shop.
In eliminating the expected trappings of a “normal” coffee shop–like, y’know, chairs–he’s beautifully put the emphasis on his limited but exquisite menu of drinks and pastries. I very rarely drink coffee without generous quantities of cream and sugar, but here I do–it’s so rich and flavorful and smooth that it really only needs a small sprinkling of sugar granules to make it palatable to me. If it’s unexpectedly busy in the shop, or when the weather’s nice and I want to walk, I’ll get it to go, but these days I’ve been staying to drink it, extending my blissful alone time standing up at the edge of the one long table in the center of the room, maybe halfheartedly scrolling through Twitter or Instagram, but mostly just zoning out, bringing myself back to the rhythms of the regular world after an hour or so at the temple.
And though I do crave my alone time, I also never want to take for granted my connection to my loved ones, so I’ve developed the habit of checking in with my boyfriend by text message, sending him a photo of what I’ve taken to calling “the weekly coffee report.” Which is exactly what it sounds like–photos snapped staring down the barrel of my coffee cup, all completely interchangeable at some level but precious to me just the same for the way they represent a certain satisfying groove of habit that’s been worn into my life of late.
Is that maybe the root of my current love affair with coffee? Its perfect balance between sameness and variation? A cup of coffee brewed at home is not a cup of coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts is not a cup of coffee from Asado, nevertheless . . .
As Adam Gopnik writes in Paris to the Moon,
Can’t repeat the past? We do it every day. We build a life, or try to, of pleasures and duties that will become routine, so that every day will be the same day, or nearly so, “the day of our life,” Randall Jarrell called it.
Of course the snob in me is torn between raving about Bad Wolf Coffee so that more people will check it out (and help it stay in business) and wanting to keep it my own little secret, a place where I can reliably go to disappear in plain sight for a short while. But I honestly love it too much to keep it to myself; I suppose there’s plenty of time for visitors in the day of my life. So if you happen to see me at the corner of the big wooden table on a Sunday morning, let us give thanks together for the bridge between the transcendent and the mundane, the solitary and the communal, offered by sharing the ritual of a really good cup of coffee.