Smith Says: Hooked on the brew

Julie Smith

I came late to the coffee game. Sort of. Not really.

My parents’ child-rearing game ranged from very strict ("Dancing delights the devil!") to weirdly permissive (Mom took preteen me to get my hair frosted like a 40-year-old divorcee).

Dad was a foot-washing Baptist who believed women shouldn't wear pants, let alone dance. Mother was a fun-loving Episcopalian who danced, drank daquiris and wore pedal pushers.

Somehow, they stayed married to the day he died. They disagreed on many issues (Nixon vs. Kennedy, anyone?), but one thing they both believed in was… coffee. They were coffee fiends.

Dad drank his with cream and sugar, and loved to dunk buttered toast in his cup. Mom drank hers black, with a cigarette on the side.

When we kids woke up for school, the wonderful smell of percolating coffee permeated the house. I bet Heaven smells a lot like that.

I was about five when Dad let me sip a little from his saucer. By age seven, I was drinking my own cup daily. And this was no decaffeinated brew—it was A&P Eight O’clock coffee, ground fresh and strong every week.

Our church, St. Anne's, had a coffee hour every Sunday before services. When I strolled into Sunday School sipping from a thick mug of coffee, the teacher almost choked.

"Child! Why are you drinking coffee?" she asked.

"Because it tastes good," I replied, coolly.

When that crack got back to Mom and Dad, they belatedly realized that maybe a seven-year-old shouldn't operate a percolator, and coffee became off-limits.

After some half-hearted protests, I didn't drink coffee again for decades. After meeting Widdle, I’d occasionally drink decaf. Widdle loves breakfast like some men love booze, so we went on a lot of breakfast dates. Decaf tasted OK, and before you know it, we were brewing Folger's green label at home, using a Mr. Coffee.

Then one day Widdle came home with a Keurig and said, "Look! The Holy Grail!"

So, we used that for about 10 years; we kept fooling with decaf, trying Seattle's Best, Mountain Blend, Dunkin, etc. I got tired of the Keurig maintenance (descaling, my eye) and having to hit "brew" twice to get one decent-sized cup of coffee.

One night I asked Widdle, "How did your mom make coffee?"

He put down the remote. "With a percolator," he said, dreamily. "I loved waking up to that smell."

"Done," I said, ordering a $20 percolator off Amazon.

Then we lost our heads completely and bought a coffee grinder. We also quickly discovered that tasty decaf beans are hard to find. You want flavor, you buy real coffee. So we did.

One day I was all, "I don't drink coffee," and the next day I was in the market with my head in the coffee bean barrels. Bourbon pecan, chocolate truffle, Michigan Maple… we tried them all. I drank one small cup daily, and enjoyed every drop.

Last Tuesday, thinking about the busy day ahead, I distractedly filled a huge travel mug with deep, dark Michigan Maple, topped with coconut cream. I went to work and sipped on it until 11 a.m., when two things happened: My heart began drumming wildly, and a friend said, "You know that thing holds about four cups, right?"

"Huh," I croaked, clutching my chest. My lips went numb and my mind was racing. "What a way to die," I thought.

I didn't die of course, although I wept twice and my hands trembled when I typed. It took about six hours to calm down.

Never again. It's back to decaf for me. Do they still sell Sanka?

Julie R. Smith, who hasn't seen a can of Sanka in years, can be reached at [email protected].

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