Without this post turning into an out-and-out ode, coffee spins my world.
My day is fragmented into two: pre-coffee and post-.
The former is marked by monosyllabic goofery and a single-mindedness that guides like a homing pigeon towards the nearest bean stash.
T. S. Eliot noted that he had ‘measured out [his] life with coffeespoons’ – my drinking habits are likewise.
Pre-10 it was all about cappuccino – the bigger the froth, the better the treat.
My early 20s were drenched in Greek frappés, supped through my M.Litt. like air is breathed.
The doctoral years were mellowed by copious quaffings of a7weh, in Jordan and Britain, the aroma dulling the trauma of academic purgatory.
As the pace picked up towards my late 20s I took to the hard stuff: espresso or bust; anything else was just piffle and a waste of liquid.
If I could inject the espresso neat, all the better.
Then came Roba’s Recipe (as it shall henceforth be known) – at first it was a treat, now it is routine.
Espresso has been relegated to 9 a.m. lectures and is administered in a purely medicinal manner.
That Roba’s is adulterated with espresso granules is, of course, beside the point 😉