Coffee with Cream and Two Sugars

Coffee with Cream and Two Sugars

A Story by Tory
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This is my first time just writing about something personal. I hope you like it!

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Coffee with Cream and Two Sugars

 

            I started drinking coffee when I was five years old. The concept might seem very foreign to some, but it wasn’t to my father. Having grown up in the campo1 of Puerto Rico where they feed schoolchildren a piece of bread and a cup of coffee every morning, coffee was something normal for him at a very young age. He was raised by his grandmother in a poor town called Coamo. The people there always struggled to make ends meet, working hard in farms and in the mountainous fields to put food on the table. However, there was something that was never lacking in each household. 

 

            “Joito,” his grandmother would call from the kitchen. My father, still learning to talk, ran in. She pushed her molinillo2 aside which she had used to hand grind the fresh coffee beans she had toasted. She grabbed a small tin cup and poured a dark brown liquid into it. Then she held it up to his lips. 

 

            “Toma3,” she said. And he tasted it. His face scrunched up as he whined in disapproval. Calmly, his grandmother grabbed some milk she has warmed up in a pot on their tiny stove and poured some in the café4 until it was light brown. Then she added a small spoonful of sugar and gave it a swirl. She encouraged him to try it again. This time he loved it. 

 

            Soon it became a tradition. Every morning there would be a cup of coffee waiting for him with the milk in the pot on the stove and the sugar on the counter. He would have some before he went to school, before he went to work in the campo, before he went to church on Sundays. He says that with time he realized he likes his coffee with two sugars instead of just one. 

 

            Now it was my turn. My mother had prohibited me from drinking coffee because she believed it was bad to drink it at such a young age. But like any kid, I became more and more curious about that thing that I wasn’t allowed to have for some reason. One morning, I followed the scent of it just brewing into the kitchen. I stared up at the coffeemaker. After a while, I decided to try to reach for it. I heard footsteps stop right at the entrance of the kitchen. Terrified, I turned around to see who had caught me. It was my father. I slowly pulled my arm back and lowered the heels of my feet onto the tiled floor. We stared at each other. And then a smile crept onto his face. 

 

            He did with me exactly what his grandmother did with him. First, he gave me a cup of black coffee with nothing in it. I absolutely hated it. He broke out into a hearty laugh when he saw my disgusted face. Then he poured some warm milk into the cup, just enough to make it a rich hazelnut brown, and put in not one, but two teaspoons of sugar. I tried it again. It took me a while to get used to the bittersweet flavor, but once I found an appreciation for the mixture, I loved it. I don’t know why I did this, but I then put the cup of coffee against his arm. I noticed the color of the coffee was the same as my father’s skin. Every morning was the same, with my father sneaking me cups of coffee behind my mother’s back. But I would always put the cup against my father’s arm to see if there was too much or too little milk in it. 

 

            We would often go to our friends’ houses on the weekends. Even though I was a teenager, I found delight in the company of my parents’ friends. They became my friends too. 

 

            “Tory, how do you want your coffee?”

 

            My father and I would always look to each other and smile. 

 

            “With cream and two sugars.”

 

            “How dark do you want it?”

 

            “Like my dad.”

            

            People always found it funny, but that’s how I like my coffee. There’s something so pleasant, so relaxing about drinking coffee. Some people chug it down in a rush when they’re late for their 7 o clock meeting. Coffee chugged is gross. But when you take your time with it, it’s an amazing experience. The way the smell tickles your nose, the way the steam rising from the top caresses the apples of your cheeks, the way the warm mug kisses your lips, the way the bitter and the sweet plays with your tongue, the way the warm liquid runs smooth down your throat and warms your chest…perfect. 

 

            Coffee reminds me a lot of my childhood in the same way it reminds my father of his. It’s a very strong connection. Rarely do I savor coffee and not think about those distant memories that I otherwise don’t really think about. To my dad, coffee with cream and two sugars means his grandmother, playing little league baseball, working in the campo, going to church every Sunday driving around listening to music from his A-track, and serving in the army. To me, coffee with cream and two sugars means the relationship between me and him, from the time when I was a little girl until now. It reminds me how when I was a baby I used to share KitKat bars with him, how I would dance to jibaro5 music with him in the kitchen every Saturday, how I became so distant from him during my teenage years and how much I missed him during all that time, how we cried together when he realized how much I had suffered and how much I was still suffering, and how I was able to become his daughter again. 

            

            That cup of coffee reminds me every morning how much I love my dad. 

 

            It also reminds me of everything I’ve been through in life, all of the challenges I’ve had to overcome. It makes my mind take off and wander and think about all of those times things could’ve gone terribly wrong, how they sometimes did go very wrong, and how I’m still here in one piece. Sometimes, it humbles you in that way. I remember the times I was so happy and the times where I couldn’t stop crying. I begin to appreciate where I’ve come from and where I could go in life. And I think about the bitter in my coffee and the sweet in my coffee and how it mixes together to make something so nice.

 

And that’s what life is. Life is given to us in all its dark, steaming, bitter glory. It warms our hands through the mug but burns our tongues. Some have learned to take it that way and that’s how they live. But sometimes, life tries to get the better of us and it seems impossible to move on. It’s not. All we have to do, all we can do, is add cream and two sugars. 

 

 campo: countryside

molinillo: grinder; coffee grinder

“Toma” : “Here”

café : coffee

jibaro : a Puerto Rican country dweller especially from the mountainous regions known for their independent lifestyle, “unsophisticated” customs, and peculiar dialect

 

            

© 2020 Tory


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Added on May 26, 2020
Last Updated on May 26, 2020

Author

Tory
Tory

Philadelphia, PA



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