
Coffee falls into the stomach … ideas begin to move, things remembered arrive at full gallop …
the shafts of wit start up like sharp-shooters, similies arise, the paper is covered with ink …
-Honoré de Balzac
Coffee is my bad boyfriend. We have an on-again, off-again love affair. I crave it, I love the taste, then a few hours later I start feeling jittery or stressed, and kick myself. Then I get tired. So I go back again for another fix. I love coffee, but he doesn’t love me back. Still, I persist.
I remember my first cup… it was in 10th grade French class. I got the “cool” French teacher that year. The teacher who we wanted to chaperone our dances. Who was a human rights activist, a bit eccentric and outspoken. The teacher who put a poster in the classroom window, so the Principal couldn’t look in as he walked the halls.
And not only was she a bit intimidating, but the other girls in the class seemed to be part of her cool posse. They couldn’t speak enough French to order a baguette, but they had nicknames and inside jokes, and all drank coffee together in our morning class.
And then there was me (who, in 10th grade, was very obviously not cool.)
We had a coffee maker in class (another reason that poster was blocking the window, I’m sure) and a container of French Vanilla coffee mate creamer – et voila – my love affair with coffee was born.
Sipping coffee with the cool girls, and speaking (really bad) French, I felt so grown up and sophisticated, so far away from my normal high school existence. Maybe that’s what made me move to Paris years later…but that’s a topic for another time!
Coffee. Is it so bad?








I’ve been staring at my screen for 30 minutes, willing myself to write and coming up blank. I can’t think of anything vaguely interesting to share with you, or any reason why you would want to read what I’m writing.











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