“Here comes Anya, we urgently put coffee.” Or: “Here comes Anya, a big coffee lover, now we will treat her to a cool espresso.” No one says that — because I don’t like coffee as much as, for example … lemonade. Nevertheless, I drink lemonade ten times a season, and coffee many times a day. Why do I drink coffee if I don’t like it?
I can live without it, eat without it, read without it and watch the series, but how I sleep without it is beyond me! What I really love is my brass cezve and long twisted spoon. Brewing coffee means being in the company of beautiful things again, adding a pair of porcelain to them, you can even change your mood. By the way, about the mood. Whether it falls or rises without coffee — this still needs to be thought about. And it is best to think first while waiting for the foam over this very Turk, and then over the foam itself, destroying it with a couple of drops of ice water before dropping into a cup. The main thing is not to think about the taste of what you drink.
Because the taste of coffee is a separate category, metaphysical, of course, like the taste of vodka. That is, there are inspired experiences over emptiness — a complete lack of taste, which successfully replaces smell (coffee is the champion of smell), heat and … ritual. No need to dissuade me — I still don’t understand how bitterness, acidity (at best, astringency) and an instant jump in pressure can be a pleasure. But that’s what I’m waiting for, taking care of the gap for the coffee tray near my computer. When a line slips or a to-do list claims to be a full-blooded free verse, I think: I haven’t had coffee for a long time … And I again go to the kitchen, justifying myself with obvious dependence, but in fact, shielding laziness and sybaritism.
Coffee implies intimacy and at the same time exclusivity of the conversation.
“Come in for a cup of coffee” has long ceased to be an invitation to coffee. Coffee implies intimacy (more than tea — did you notice?) and at the same time the exclusivity of the conversation. We are, as it were, with one foot in the aviary of the aristocracy. Maybe because it’s more expensive? Coffee is more expensive than tea, I mean. And the mercenary organism, which, of course, could still move its pistons, regularly recalls its right to this mixture and begins to shiver and whine until it smells of the cherished aroma.
There is a coffee break, but no tea break, Apple will soon take on coffee machines, and tea has one samovar in history. No one has yet sacralized the indisputably healthy freshly squeezed juice or spring water — and coffee as much as you like. What does it mean? This means that the image of coffee manipulates us. “Well, what kind of quarter is this — there is nowhere to drink coffee!” — that is, there is nowhere to sit down and score on everything for twenty minutes. By the way, in Haiti, two-year-old children are given coffee. Such a first meal. And the desperate cry of the needy is translated literally as follows: “Yes, my child has nothing to buy coffee with!”
And we — as long as there is something — we will drink it at any age and in any shaman, because coffee is freedom. The freedom of our time and space, the indulgence of idleness and overtime, our connection to the present, and if we are in Haiti, to the future.