“I hate coffee”
That was me. Words I actually said when a friend handed me some coffee laden garbage at 2am before I slammed the door, got onto the highway, and drove south into the night.
First sip . . . “this is not bad”
Second sip . . . “I think I can handle this stuff”
Tenth sip . . . “I don’t feel so hot”
Twelfth sip . . . “This coffee is making me ill”
Final sip . . . “This is going out the window”
. . . . . .
That was 7 years ago in 2002, the year I decided I hated coffee.
It was also the year I decided that I would learn to love coffee.
Why?
Dads drink coffee. Men drink coffee. Students drink coffee.
So, basically, it was a necessity. (right?)
I started my journey with drinks that were as close to milkshakes as I could find, so it was a solid diet of frappuccinos (mint chocolate chip, vanilla bean, caramel, vanilla, and miscellaneous seasonal varieties).
At first, I was forcing myself to deal with the coffee flavor, but a pressed forward into the foreign and frightening realm of “lattes” and “mochas” . . . having no clue what those words meant, but knowing I could have all the chocolate and caramel syrup I wanted squirted into my cup to deaden the “expresso” flavor I so dreaded.
In time, I developed an appreciation for these drinks, realizing that my favorite beverages came from the local coffee shops of Louisville, Kentucky that had access to locally roasted beans of the best espresso variety (yeah, I finally learned to say “espresso” without an “ex” sound).
“Whoa! I am starting to develop a taste for this stuff!”
Encouraged, I pressed forward . . . quickly moving into the world of Mistos, Americano, and flavored coffee.
I was so close, so very close indeed, to conquering my taste buds and becoming a “black coffee man”.
Buy I just couldn’t get over the hump.
And then, one special morning in Dallas, I met the Affectionate Communist.
. . . . . .
Driving up from Texas, I stopped to stay the night with my buddy Mason King.
Mase took me to breakfast at the Crooked Tree Coffeehouse.
Mase told me about this drink I had never heard of before, a drink with the kick of a full blown Communist dictator but the smoothness of a . . . well . . . benevolent dictator, let’s say.
Mase introduced me to Jason, the barista, who passed me a small brown mug, smooth syruppy caramelly brown contents smiling up at me.
Mase treated me to a truly Affectionate Communist.
Mase got me over the hump – I realized that I didn’t need cream to thicken the texture of my coffee, I needed more coffee . . . thicker coffee, richer coffee, and a little sugar to pull it all together.
Mase brought this epic journey to its final destination.
Mase made me a black coffee man.
. . . . .
Do you have a fastastical story of your own experience with the coffee beverage?
If you are a coffee lover, is it more for the ritual of the coffee or the actual consumption of the beverage, itself?





This is a quick post to point you to a couple of other blog posts that will answer a couple of questions for you:



That is the longest post title in the short history of the