Recently, I started drinking coffee again after a lengthy and complicated relationship with the hot brown liquid. My version of “drinking coffee” is still probably nothing like yours: I water down a quarter of a cup of half-decaf once in a while. It’s weak. It’s mild. It doesn’t do anything. But it tastes like warm memories.
The first cup of coffee I ever welcomed onto my taste buds was back in 1994/5. My grade seven class was on a field trip to an agricultural fair in the countryside, not too far from our middle school. I don’t know if it was early spring or late fall, but it was bloody freezing. Muddy and wet-snowy and blustery as heck.
My core little group of friends at the time usually spent our spare moments at school re-hashing the previous weekend’s episode of SNL, quoting and re-enacting our favourite sketches. We debated and commiserated over crucial happenings like Norm McDonald’s debut as Weeekend Update anchor, or Adam Sandler premiering the Channukah Song, or Juliette Lewis suddenly dropping out as host for the week, or Hole performing “Doll Parts.” Today, though, we bonded over our shared rural misery. We were all - at twelve years old - intellectuals who’d have rather had a surprise math test plunked in front of us or been assigned a multi-page essay than to have had to ride a school bus to a muddy field to look at a bunch of tractors.
Debby had instantly become my best friend at the start of grade 7. She and I even hung out outside of school, which required us convincing two varying degrees of strict single moms - one of whom only spoke Taiwanese Mandarin - to give us permission to walk to Eaton’s, or whatever. We were close friends. Ann and I often partnered up for school projects; our mutual diligence and quietness kept us on good terms, always. Stefan was boisterous, usually hilarious, and regaled me with stories of his family’s original home, Haiti. Today we were joined by Anis, the class clown and smallest kid in our grade. The diversity of our group was not lost on me. I really liked these people.
We were all good kids, in the truest sense
Today, we were shivering kids. Clearly underdressed. Obviously not cut out for this sort of thing. Somebody must have said they’d love a hot chocolate or a hot apple cider, and somebody else probably said they didn’t have that here. And then somebody, the greatest genius of us all, must have suggested that they would definitely have coffee here. Or perhaps we just saw a bunch of grownups lined up at a silver carafe filling their white cups with a steaming beverage… Regardless, we had made our collective decision.
We were going to try coffee for the first time, all of us.
Right now.
We hustled under the large white canvas tent and relished the lack of ice cold droplets on our delicate skulls. We were already smiling before we’d even grabbed our Styrofoam cups and filled them with a dark, steaming elixir that was sure to cure our chills. Some of us probably put sugar or cream in our cups - or both - but I’m certain that I left mine black. Always ready for a challenge, we took our first sips together under that tent as the ran fell sideways and our teacher and the rest of our classmates watched tractors do stuff like a bunch of chumps.
Our first sips of coffee felt like comfort, camaraderie, bravery, triumph, rebellion and satisfaction all at once. I don’t remember whom, but at least one of us didn’t like the stuff. Was it vociferous Anis, always quick to tell the whole world his innermost thoughts? Or slight, black-bobbed, bespectacled Ann? Or boisterous jokester Stefan? Or me, awkward-banged, curly-headed whatever I was? Nah. I loved this shit. It did the trick. We spent the rest of the field trip warmer, happier, more mature; lighter than air.
Something in me had changed.
I drank almost all of my first cup of black coffee, which says a lot about my twelve-year-old tenacity and future propensity towards caffeinated overindulgence. I watched the last few cold milliliters of the stuff swirl around the bottom of my foam cup, mingling with a few stray coffee grounds as I tossed it into a black lined trash can that stood in the middle of a grassy field. My toes were numb with cold and my chunky Zellers boots coated in farm mud.
It was no Glastonbury, but it was my first outdoor festival with friends and my first experience with a psychoactive substance. It was an opportunity to learn more about a group of kids who - although most of us lost touch after middle school - left a lasting impression on me. Kids who unintentionally educated me about their cultures and the violent transition from their families being who they’d been for centuries to suddenly becoming “Canadian.” Kids who faced a lot of challenges I never would. Kids who made me smile, and who laughed at my jokes.
Almost 30 years later, my memory of them is still gently steeped in every blazing hot cup.
Isn’t it interesting how a first cup of coffee brings back such vivid memories? I remember my first also, my oldest sister introduced me to a very hot cup of instant coffee at the age of 13 upon which I burnt my mouth. I can still see myself sitting with her at her kitchen table. ☕️
Outstanding!!! I just ground some fresh beans and I'm going make a Big Cup to take outside while I power wash my Lawn Tractor and grass dumpster before putting them away for the season. It's 45deg. F. and Sunny here today in Michigan !!!
Hope you and Ryan are doing well. Love your stories Jackie !! Bob from Michigan !!!😎