Before the sun even peaks through my window, I hear a click from the kitchen. I sink deeper into the blanket, trying to block out the practiced routine: my mom slowly pacing from her room to the kitchen, my dad following soon after. The click comes from the machine where steam hisses from the rumbling water being spit out. My mother just pressed the faded ON button of our coffee machine, a filter and the grains prepared the night before. The machine was so quickly worn down from its excessive use, it needed a replacement twice a year. To my parents, this routine was normal, they needed coffee to stay awake, yet the very idea of that same routine drains my energy.
The process of making coffee is one which I find strangely beautiful. There is an art to delicately heat up the milk at the right temperature while letting the coffee brew; milk and sugar balance out the dark bitterness of the coffee alone. Every time my mom makes coffee, she sets down her seasonal mug, doles out the perfect amount of sugar, and rests the spoon in the mug while eagerly waiting for all to align. In my house, the act of brewing and drinking coffee is ceremonial.
I had my doubts.
Despite my hatred for the bitter stimulant, I often find myself relating to it. The drink is most associated with energy and getting prepared for the long day to come; however, I have always thought of it as a treat, the way to relax after a long day. This most likely stems from staying over at my grandmother’s apartment when I was young.
During any odd hour of the day, she would prepare her mug, similarly to my mother, and pour a little bit in a cup for me. Brimmed with milk and sugar, I would hastily sip the piping hot drink, wanting to remain unseen by my mother. I was caught almost every time, resulting in my grandmother being the one in trouble, not me. Seeing how this angered my mother, I stopped drinking it, but my grandmother would always insist and ask if I wanted more. I didn’t understand why this was such a big deal; surely, if mother knows best, what does mother’s mother know? It’s been over ten years since I had my last cup of coffee, but that experience is one I can never forget. Even though my mother had insisted that I finish her cup of nightly coffee once I got to a certain age, I had always refused, and this brewed the development of my bitter feelings.
My parents and I have almost never seen eye to eye regarding coffee, but during the holidays I have my own version to drink alongside them. Warmed in the same small pot, reserved just for my parents' coffee, we pour the milk into different cups, two consisting of coffee, and one with chocolate powder.
Hot cocoa is always synonymous with youth, the child’s version of their parents’ coffee. People mostly think of coffee with age, but it can be very youthful. In Puerto Rico, when my father was a child, he would gather the coffee beans straight from the tree, toss them into a basket and deliver the gatherings to his grandparents. They would remove the coffee beans from their outer shells and roast. My father only got a few times to manually grind the beans himself before he moved to New York, where making coffee was bleak in comparison.
I still refuse to take a sip of coffee, but seeing how large of an influence it has on my family, it has finally taken the bitter taste from my mouth.
Matthew Pagán is a Freshman Comics major at the School of Visual Arts. He is Puerto Rican, born and raised in the Bronx.