I think that parents often let their children try coffee at a young age just to stop the seemingly endless whining. While I’d like to think I didn’t complain as a child, I’m not sure what else would have inspired my parents to let me try coffee before I was old enough to need caffeine to function.
I don’t remember exactly how old I was, probably around eight or nine, but do I remember sitting next to my mother on our blue and white checkered couch and begging a sip. I don’t even recall why I wanted to try coffee so much. Probably because it was a forbidden drink that only adults were allowed. So, my child’s mind decided that if I got to try the coffee, then I would be more mature.
Anyway, my mother decided to let me try her drink. Perhaps she figured that I since I was, and still am, such a picky eater that there was no way in hell that I would like it.
And oh, was she right! As soon as that horrid liquid touched my taste buds, I wanted to spit it right back in the mug. I was positive she’d accidentally made her drink with fuel oil instead of coffee. Still, I swallowed the concoction, of which my mother was probably very grateful. Nobody appreciates backwashed coffee, or any other beverage for that matter.
After that gritty experience, I decided to avoid coffee for awhile. My father tried to offer me a taste of his homemade iced mocha instead of the milk and hot coffee my mom had, but I quickly declined after smelling the drink. The brownness of the liquid, diluted with melted ice cubes didn’t smell like what I thought coffee should smell like. Coffee was supposed to be warm. It smelled spicy and exotic, like distant lands that you couldn’t even imagine how to get to since they were so far away. There was supposed to be an imagined residue left on your tongue after someone ground up the beans when you were in the same room. The taste was supposed to hold the memory of resting in the cradle of a paper filter, having hot water pushed through it, and then being percolated into a glass pot. Coffee was supposed to be drunk from a ceramic mug, not a teal plastic cup with a hot pink lid. (And yes, my father still uses these cups for his coffee).
I realized then that it wasn’t the idea of coffee that I liked, but rather the smell. Freshly ground coffee instantly softens a room. The smell relaxes; it makes a place feel more comfortable and homey. This affect is what led me to allow my brother to talk me into tasting his peppermint mocha years later. To my surprise, I actually enjoyed the taste of the coffee this time, and ordered my first whole cup of coffee. Sure, this form of the beverage had been altered with chocolate, milk, and sugary syrups, but it made me realize that a lot of the foods I’d discarded in the past after just one taste might be enjoyable if augmented slightly.
So, I really had two first cups of coffee: one that I tried and discarded, along with the idea of ever liking coffee, and a second that I enjoyed and consumed with the realization that other aspects of life could be also liked if I changed the way in which I received them.
it's interesting the way tastes change as we get older, as well as the motivations behind why we try things for the first time. i remember when i first tried smoking cigarettes, and how terrible it was, but i was bound and determined to do it because i thought it was cool. some good descriptions here, you should do more of it.
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