Coffee Karma

I find myself sipping my homemade double shot espresso mocha some time before 5AM. The child has had considerable difficulty with sleep of late. I have put it down to a growth spurt. She wakes up several times in the night, and at some point for hours...not agitated...just awake. And I honour that right now.



At this point the peaceful strains of harp and guitar music that I play to soothe her have ended. It's still dark outside and a wild wind blows on the little chimes on my balcony: a remnant from the previous owners. I like the sound of the wind and the occasional tinkling chimes.

This is a Tassimo free zone. I find that the whole pre-made supposedly perfect cup of espresso or the like promised by this machine to be representative of everything wrong with society: the end being the point of everything, with no respect for or appreciation of the process. It is also coercive, the perfect cup being given a corporate definition. Again...no respect for individuality or nuance.


Making good coffee is an art and heavily sensual, the preparation of the beans, waiting for the machine to heat, texturing the milk, all akin to foreplay leading to the first sip...perfection and satisfaction.

North Americans are obsessed with coffee of every sort, marginal in quality or otherwise; and unlike in Europe or South America where coffee is appreciated for itself, we here hold tight to it as a sign of respite in a world gone mad. Whether upscale or akin to comestible gasoline, our cups of coffee hold promises of peace, of the "pause" in the ever-so-apt French expression "pause-café". "Bring back the break"...McDonald's newest advert campaign.

After many tumultuous nights, hospital stays and ongoing personal dilemmas, my coffee is as valuable to me as gold. And I imagine, if there was such a place, that heaven (were it to be of our own creation), would be for me an upscale coffee lounge. There would be a perpetual scent of brewing coffee mixed with chocolate, distant sounds of espresso machines and clinking mugs. Comfy couches around low tables, a fire place and a continuous rotation of friends, family and good men sitting across from me. I would be engaged in an eternal round of conversation and delicate sensory stimulus...occasional celebratory moments spiking my coffee with fine Irish whiskey or Bailey's.


There are days when it is easy to imagine allowing oneself to slip slowly and irrevocably into this coffee induced coma, enveloped forever by warmth and peace.