When I miss my parents, I drink coffee.
I don’t even like coffee. In fact, coffee makes me sick to my stomach. My parents, however, do not make me sick to my stomach.
I am one of those kids who loves their parents. I don’t consider myself to be controlled by them. In fact, getting them to give me actual advice is a struggle. The other day, for instance, I asked my mom if I should get the insured Amtrak ticket. She asked me about what it gave me (not much), before commenting that it seemed like it would be useful in an extremely narrow, and possibly unlikely, set of circumstances. “But,” she added, “it’s only eight-fifty if you have eight-fifty to spare.” She explained that she and Dad never get travel insurance, but some people get it all the time.
My parents are the picture of “letting us make our own decisions.”
I adore my parents. I miss them when they aren’t around.
My parents love coffee. They don’t just love to drink coffee, they love coffee.
A habit in my family is to decide to get into something, to love something. It might be something we think is cool, or something we’ve had passing experiences with. For example, my parents, as long as I can remember, drank coffee. One day, when I was younger, they decided to love coffee. Once the decision was made, everything fell in line with it.
First, they learned about the different types of coffee. They would have at-home coffee tastings. They became familiar with what different coffees tasted like, and which varieties they enjoyed.
They experimented with different ways to make coffee. Different water temperatures, different settings on the coffee grinder, different steeping times.
Then my father began to roast coffee.
The first time he did it, he used the oven. He had purchased raw coffee beans off the internet. Over time, he got good at this and then decided to get a proper coffee roaster instead. For years he has played around with his methods of turning raw beans into something that can be made into coffee. My mom actually makes the coffee. “[She] makes it better,” he said once after dinner.
Combined, as far as I understand it, my parents make great coffee.
I don’t drink this coffee because I don’t enjoy it. When I miss my parents, I get coffee, that I am assured would not be as good as the coffee they make. I sip it and shudder. I smell it, inhaling deeply. I never finish a cup of it.
Sometimes my parents send me the coffee they roast. I love when they do this. I give it to people. No one has actually ever told me if they like it or not. I like to think they do. I hope they do. Most people are struck by the fact that my parents roast coffee. This makes me happy. It’s the one time I feel as though maybe people get a small grasp of how awesome I think my parents are.