I’ve had a rough month and I’ve been watching a lot of Twin Peaks, and it’s got me thinking about coffee. Making coffee at home is one of my favorite rituals, to the point where drinking it unrushed on Saturday morning is the smallest, most awesomely dull vacation.
And I make a damn fine cup of coffee. Intelligentsia whole bean that I grind myself, because I’m fancy. Tiny coffee maker because I’m the only one in the house that drinks it, the guy and cat are more into Diet Coke and water. One sugar cube. Lots of whole milk.
I don’t think you have to be used to the worst kind of surprises to appreciate boring, but it helps. Growing up wasn’t good sometimes – sometimes a lot of the time. Realizing things can be pretty okay is still a novelty, a party I thought was invitation-only and I still sort of feel like I’m crashing. Pretty okay is kind of amazing.
I make coffee in the house where I live. I like to come back here at the end of the day. I like the other person that lives here. Sometimes there’s fights and tension, but they’re not the default. I know how good things can be, and that it’s not impossible to get there. It’s not even always hard. And that still boggles my mind.
The coffee is hot and good. I feel it wrap around my brain like a caffeinated hug, clearing the fog from my head and sleep from my eyes. I think more clearly. Everything is a little easier to handle.
Mundane activities are small and sacred. Making coffee reminds me that things are all right. And let’s not get started on pie.