Curiosity about the beautiful dark liquid won out at an early age when I snuck a few scoops of Sanka into a cup of hot water, but was unfortunately horrified at the bitterness when I slurped my first sip.
That didn’t deter me, however, and coffee made another appearance during my college years, when consuming gallons meant status and adulthood, damn the headaches, jitters, and caffeine crashes.
Then came many years of Mr. Coffee serving mediocre fare through his flimsy paper filter, never producing the same flavor twice, and the discovery of cream turning the bitterness into a tolerable—sometimes delicious—morning beverage.
Finally, my small setting caught up with the world and the beginning of a life-long love affair presented itself in the form of a latte in various sizes and flavors.
Age—or maybe frailty—robbed my ability to tolerate caffeine, but a determined, sometimes grueling search revealed decaf and although I’m berated at my so-called weakness, the non-jittery-causing concoction found at Starbucks or any modern coffee shop ensures my deeply embedded, never ending, addiction will continue until I can’t.
I wrote this for a memoir class assignment; we were only to use five sentences to describe something.