The wired life

As I sit here at my computer, sipping my first cup of life-giving dark roast brewed in my French press, I can’t help but think of my grandmother, my beloved Googie, who once said that a life without coffee was life uninspired. A woman ahead of her time, Googie insisted on brewing Cafe Bustello in her Moka pot on the stovetop even as the rest of the modern American world was swilling that newfangled instant stuff and pretending it was just as good as the real thing. Some of my earliest and happiest memories are of my Italian grandmother spoon-feeding me small sips from her morning cup as I sat in my highchair, still just a wee babe but well on my way to having an enthusiastic appreciation for the bean and all of its inspirational benefits.

Sometimes I wonder how people who are not coffee drinkers ever get anything done. It is, quite literally, the only reason I get out of bed. With coffee coursing through my veins, I’m productive, energetic, creative, and yeah, I’ll say it, happy. With a shudder, I think back to the time some years ago when I decided to quit, a scary time when my husband Max suddenly became quite ill and ended up in the hospital in a dangerous state of sepsis. Doctors kept him off food (and yes, coffee) for the duration of his stay, knowing at any moment he might need emergency surgery. But a day dragged into a week, and even with a steady morphine drip, Max experienced the caffeine withdrawal headache from hell. After finally discovering the source of infection, doctors operated and sent him home, minus his gall bladder – and his caffeine addiction.

Depleted but thankfully very much alive, he vowed to never go through the misery of withdrawal again, claiming it was almost as miserable as the pain of a festering organ dying inside his body. And so, in solidarity, I too went cold turkey from my beloved brew, experiencing the dreaded effects of the caffeine slowly bidding my body adieu. On the other side of it, I, too, vowed never again.

And so we started our new life, free from the shackles of our dark bean master. We became connoisseurs of tea, steeping loose leaves of hojicha and sencha in ceramic pots, learning to appreciate the subtle lift it gave, a far cry from the caffeinated punch-you-in-the-face wake-up call we’d grown so accustomed to. Sipping blends crafted to soothe, calm and nurture the spirit, we got a lot less done, but lo! We slept better, argued less, and were more patient with our rambunctious daughter. We even pitched the old drip coffee maker, knowing we’d absolutely never go back.

Even so, the temptation was never entirely vanquished, and the lure of that caffeine hit lingered on in the back of my mind, especially at my job in a busy commercial kitchen, where there was always a pot of the good stuff on hand. My brain waged a minute-by-minute war with itself, watching with envy as my coworkers helped themselves to another freshly brewed mug.

I sensed my resistance fading, until eventually, the inevitable happened. I made a deal with the devil. Just a splash, I promised, an inch or two to get me to the end of my shift. And so I broke the pact and flew to the stratosphere on caffeine-laced gossamer wings, and it was like coming home to comfort and friendship after exile in a hostile country. It was all I needed, that small splash, to get me to that state of elation. Until, of course, it wasn’t.

Needless to say, consumption escalated pretty rapidly. I confessed my leap off the wagon to Max, and just like that, off we went for a new drip coffee maker. We held on to the fancy teas for a while, even steeping a pot now and then, only half expecting the serenity and inner peace it once afforded us. All that was behind us now, a well-intended experiment in zen outdone by the exuberant, jittery, irresistible allure of life inspired.