Most love affairs with coffee begin the same way.
You sneak a sip of coffee from your parents when you’re a preteen. It tastes so atrocious that you nearly spit it out, all the while thinking my parents drink this of their own free will? (Note: this experience is very similar to one’s first taste of alcohol. Patience, young grasshopper).
Then you get older. You’re always at least a little bit tired, and you wonder why you ever hated nap time after Sesame Street. You’re in college or out in the workforce, and you have never hated anything as much as your alarm clock.
You somehow grow weary of the sweet and acidic taste of Mountain Dew. And then something amazing happens: coffee begins to taste like the nectar of the gods.
It didn’t happen for me until my sophomore year of college. Mostly because my freshmen year was spent drinking aforesaid Mountain Dew at midnight to finish my papers.
It started with a cup of coffee here or there, in the cafeteria or at my parent’s house on the weekends. But come junior year, Denny’s coffee was my gateway drug.
Along with my friends, we drank more coffee than is medically acceptable. When Dave and I moved in together, we bemoaned the price of coffee but there was nothing we could do but pay for the cheapest we could find: it was what kept us alive.
As we got older, our coffee standards have grown.
I don’t think I could ever go back.