Oh my God! That's the morning. My daughter was late for the first bell in high school. My son rushed down the driveway and went straight to the open door of the Ross school bus. The silver goldfish Prata jumped out of the fish tank and slapped on the floor. .. At that moment, I realized that Teddy had made an appointment for a doctor in Riverhead within 48 minutes. I yelled at his dad on the phone, even if it wasn't his fault, I couldn't find my slippers. This is the morning of a double espresso.
To be honest, every morning around this ranch is double espresso-Double-Bar-E Crazy Ranch in Edwards Lane. My drink of choice is two cups of Ethiopian Yegaschefi, plus enough oat milk (Oatley or Chobani Extra Creamy) to make a latte. In the summer, I poured it on five ice cubes, to be precise, in a pint glass of John's drive-through, especially. In the winter, I choose a cup from a large number of unnecessary cups-the English bird cup, the Royal Jubilee cup, the Newfoundland souvenir cup, the cup showing Mrs. Dee, the cup showing the wedding of Prince Andrew(!) and Fergie- The white cabinet next to the kitchen window was packed with a shelf. When I made my choice, I glanced outside and noticed the frost on the grass in the shadow of the house in the morning and the squirrel on the small apple tree. Only three days ago, I changed the seasonality from ice to heat. This morning, I chose a cup with an image of Edmund Pettus Bridge, and it said "Selma to Montgomery National Historic Trail", which set the mood and intention of the day. Today may be a long march, but let us make it a journey of justice.
Ten or two years ago, there was a fashion in which the authors of non-fiction books described the vast world of human history by telling the story of a single traded commodity: the progress of world civilization as summarized by the trade of cod, crude oil or salt. I wrote An article about molasses, myself, pretentiously tracking the sunburned colonization of the white working class on the Atlantic coast — from Barbados all the way north to Nova Scotia — as it unfolds in rum and molasses cookies It suddenly occurred to me last night that although you might want to read Mark Kurlansky (the author of the best-selling book "Cod and Salt")'s entire book on Java topics, I don't want to read one. .. But of course I can write a column about it.
I rely on espresso to write this column. When I ran out of ideas, I fell into the trap of thinking I needed more espresso.
My personal coffee history began when I was 25 years old when I was a habitual of kavehazak in Budapest. I didn’t drink coffee until I was 25. At first, I drank coffee not for taste, but because of the environment: 101 cafes in Budapest-some magnificent Art Nouveau cathedrals, with decorative ceilings and marble tabletops, some in In the basement, thick Helikon cigarette smoke prevents you from seeing your shoes. My favorite is Muvesz Kavehaz ("Artist Cafe") on Andrassy Street. On days without a mobile phone, you can wander around in any moody Central European afternoon wearing long skirts and telephone operator boots and meet a group of handsome young intellectuals wearing hand-woven scarves and shabby tweeds from muddy feketekave.
Ten years later, in Brooklyn, an adult magazine editor wears sunglasses and takes the F train to Times Square every morning—covering my face with the "Daily News" and wrapping the shoulder strap of my Sprouse Graffiti Speedy Vuitton handbag It’s on my wrist, so it’s uncontrollable-I’m addicted to ice latte, and I get this addiction every morning after the gym is over in a hippie dilapidated coffee shop on Smith Street, frequented by fishing enthusiasts These cafes.
A few years later, when I left New York City and was adopting my child—dazzling paperwork and troublesome snowstorms that lasted from 2007 to 2011—I tasted the best of my life on four trips Coffee Ethiopia, the birthplace of them and coffee. The most delicious and delicious berries are in the Addis Ababa cafe in the 1930s, called Tomoca, you stand and drink, squeezed around the chest-high countertop. (We are worried about Addis Ababa this winter, and those who we lifted the demitasse, because the civil war is approaching the capital.)
Since becoming a mother, I have brewed and drank my morning coffee at home. I like a small metal stove moka pot. Its bubbles and hiss sound like it is about to explode. In the summer of 2019, I stopped drinking coffee for a while because some people suspected that it might be the possible cause of severe vertigo attacks-during this time, I was spinning and rolling in the space capsule in the dim bedroom, and was tragically released from gravity. ——I am easily affected. Giving up coffee is not going well. I find that without it, I cannot write or even work efficiently. My thoughts are erratic. I have fewer ideas. I lost my motivation. I lack all beliefs.
My abstention only lasted about five months. I started sneaking out of the office and sneaking to Mary's Marvelous or Starbucks.
Last night, at about 9 o’clock in the evening—that is, half an hour before he went to bed—my son announced that he was going to stain the pages of the white hardcover notebook with coffee so that the notebook would turn yellow over time, thereby earning him more The good grades are in his sixth grade history class homework. This class has been studying ancient Phoenician culture. Teddy created a 10-page historical novel in the form of a diary, which was traveled by an imaginary 12-year-old Spanish boy as a kitchen slave on a Gaul ship from Iberia. To the port of Tyre. Therefore, I found myself smearing 6 cups of Illy Ethiopian Yegaschefei on the page of a white hardcover notebook, while Teddy dried the page with a hair dryer and covered it with a properly wrinkled bronze. If this is not a good metaphor for the journey of life, I don't know what it is.
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