A huge gap in my posting these past ten days or so. I won't even try to catch up (as I sometimes have when I've missed three days). And so today's favourite thing was my first sip of Bridgehead coffee, standing at the counter in the cafe, after dropping Ben off at school in the pouring rain. I don't know why the first sip is so much better than every sip after (still good but not exquisite the way that first sip is). And I don't know why Bridgehead lattes are so much better than all other lattes. I ran into Daphne at Bridgehead once just after she'd returned from Europe (Europe!) and she said she always looked forward to coming home from abroad and getting coffee at Bridgehead because it just wasn't as good anywhere else.
Some of my favourite (or at least most memorable) coffee experiences: a perfectly hot and delicious coffee at a small hotel in Prague in the late 1980s when I was there with Ehud; coffee in a yellow mug that I made every morning for myself in Varaire with milk that was often still warm from the cow; coffee stops in Switzerland when Joel and I were hiking in the Alps; my first coffee in Italy when I was eighteen and the shock and thrill of how different it was from all other coffees I'd tried.
Oddly, at some point over the past fifteen years or so I've more or less stopped making coffee at home. But I used to be a finicky coffee-maker with an elaborate system that only I could execute; I always wanted my coffee "just so" and I enjoyed the ritual of it.
Several people mentioned coffee in the context of other things (usually reading). Miriam: "Long mornings in bed... with good coffee and the NY Times." Louise: "Drinking coffee on the dock at North Otter Lake on a summer morning (our cottage)." And Rick: " Really really good coffee and really really good book reading material, all on the porch."
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