I cannot in all good conscience say that it was love at first taste. For me the attraction began with the aroma, as I’m sure many would agree. That glorious scent drew me in, seducing me over countless mornings growing up. Always I was denied more than the smell and sight of that deep black liquid.
There is no legal age that I am aware of that one must attain before partaking of coffee, but many parents treat it like a restricted beverage. Mine were no exception.
When finally my lips touched a cup of coffee, I remember having such anticipation. It was similar to that feeling of a first kiss. My tongue was scalded by the heat, and the taste lingered bitterly after. It was clear that I would not be won over now that the forbidden was accessible. I turned away from coffee and thought that the end of it. But coffee does not give up so easily.
Everywhere I went, it was there. Some times the aroma was embedded into the very fabric of the clothes of the people passing me by, or mocking me from the cup sitting beside me, taunting me from the lips of another. Coffee even conspired with others to get to me as it was offered, nay, encouraged after every meal.
Coffee attempted to appeal to me in it’s many guises. It would appear laced in cream, frothing with foam, softened with sugar, spiced, and naked. There were so many ways it could please me if only I would succumb.
What finally did it for me, what finally won coffee my heart, was ultimately that which had first caused me to balk. Under all the frills and dressing, at its core, coffee is nothing more than a hot, bitter jolt of life.