"I was hooked on joe by 12 th grade. I got to drive my stepdad's '66 Ranchero to school that year (liberation!) and each morning scrambled out the front door, juggling a steamy mug of black brew, a stack of books, and escaping papers. In college, late nights found me clicking my electric Corona typewriter, a Marlboro cigarette in an ashtray, and a double-fist-sized mocha, full then empty. I could drink another one an hour before bed and still fall asleep."
"Java was my fuel and indulgence even though the acid started burning my stomach. Did I quit at my doctor's suggestion? No. I added half-and-half, telling myself it would soothe the ache. A decade later, a different doctor, naturopath, and acupuncturist all insisted I quit coffee, or at least drink less. Better for my stomach, anxiety, and sleep. But I loved a piping hot cup in my hands: the smell, the warmth."
A family maintained rigorous coffee rituals, grinding beans and brewing pour-overs with a Chemex and driving long distances to buy beans. Parents favored a custom half French roast, half house blend and urged drinking coffee black to truly taste the flavor. Early caffeine dependence emerged in high school with morning black coffee and persisted through college mochas and late-night work. Parenthood intensified reliance on coffee to survive severe sleep deprivation despite stomach acid. Medical and alternative practitioners later recommended cutting back or quitting for stomach, anxiety, and sleep, yet sensory comforts and a mantra of 'Coffee for Life' sustained resistance.
Read at Slate Magazine
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