The light in the window looked comforting. It was early; another hour until daylight, and cold. Not snowing but feeling like it might start sometime soon and when it did, it would take its time about quitting. One of those winter mornings in Vermont when what you want-need, in fact-is a cup of coffee and another human you can commiserate with while you drink it. I knew that there would be coffee ready in the little store where I had parked on my way somewhere to run some kind of errand. It's that way here. When you fill up or buy a paper, early in the morning, you can also get a cup of coffee and, if you have the time, some agreeable conversation. Sets you right up for the day.
That morning, for some reason, I started thinking about the whole business of coffee and its rituals. The subject was fresh since my daughter had just been home and I had learned a lot-more, probably, than I wanted to know-about her life in one of those wretched eastern cities. I knew the length of her commute and the time it took her to make it. The places where she shopped. The kind of ethnic restaurants where she ate. (Who knew the Ethiopians even had a "cuisine?") I learned about urban golf. A Scandinavian furniture store called Ikea. The price of concert tickets. And I learned about Starbucks.Now I had, of course, heard of Starbucks. I'd even drunk some of that expensive fluid that they sell. This had occurred at some airport and that probably put me off Starbucks forever since an airport is a place where you are almost always worried about time or, even, truly in a hurry. And Starbucks is a place where getting a cup of coffee to drink is not something to be rushed. You must first stand in line and the line in which I stood moved almost as slowly as the one where they make you take your shoes off and show your boarding pass.
And your waiting is not done when you have reached the head of the line. Now you must order. Which is only slightly less involved than buying an airplane ticket through Expedia. "I'd like a cup of coffee," is not sufficient. You must choose from among many different blends-to include Ethiopian and, again, who knew?-and sizes. And Starbucks does not measure size by the normal American system of weights and measures-small, medium, large, jumbo, and humongous. At Starbucks, you can get a "Grande" or ... well, that's the only size I remember. I also remember how pretentious the word sounded as it came out of my mouth.
When I had my Starbucks coffee, at last, I handed over a five-dollar bill and got back barely enough for a legitimate contribution to the jar where you could contribute to the counter-person's college education.
And the coffee?
Well, I thought they'd burned it but I learned that is the signature Starbucks flavor-charcoal.
My daughter had told me, on her visit, that she does not go a day without Starbucks. She always orders the same thing-a skim something or other latte, I believe-and she always sits down with it and opens her laptop so that she can catch up on her e-mails while she drinks it. Some days, she might nibble on a brioche but that is the only deviation from her ritual. And it is one of the best parts of her day.
And that is what I was thinking about as a climbed out of the truck and went in to drink a paper cup full of the coffee Dennis had made. There is nothing humans consume-with the possible exception of wine-that is more drenched in ritual than coffee. Every culture has its own little coffee ceremonies. Some are ancient and almost sacred. Others are contemporary and, probably, perishable. Do French intellectuals still sit at sidewalk cafes drinking coffee, smoking Galouises, and arguing about Sartre? If not, no big loss. But you see my point.
My preference for the Vermont coffee ritual-cardboard cup, plastic top, maybe a cinnamon donut to gnaw on, and some conversation about the weather-doesn't mean anything much. Just that I like it and hope that it won't change too much. And, this being Vermont, probably it won't. Except, I did notice the other day that one of those thermoses with the plunger on top that Dennis fills with coffee was labeled not with "Our blend," or "Morning Roast," or another of the usual generic descriptions. It read, instead, "Ethiopian."
Who knew?◊
Geoffrey Norman is a Dorset author and the editor of Vermonttiger.com
