When I was a little girl growing up in rural Georgia, my daddy would occasionally fix a cup of coffee for my siblings or me if we eyeballed his steaming cup-o-joe longingly enough and put on our most pathetic “give-me” faces. Granted, the cup he fixed for us was more Carnation Evaporated Milk than coffee; nevertheless, we sat down at the table with Daddy, sipped that cup-o-joe, and felt very grown up indeed.

I didn’t develop a real taste for and appreciation of coffee, however, until I was pregnant with my daughter, Kathy. In fact, when I was pregnant with Kathy, I craved coffee and, at the time, enjoyed not only the taste but also the aroma of it to such an extreme that I was often tempted to gobble coffee grounds straight from the can. Not that I did, but, still, the idea was tempting. And I guess that craving might explain why my daughter popped out of the womb high strung. The poor girl was born with caffeine pumping through her veins.

Admittedly, I am still a coffeeholic (No, that isn’t a word recognized by Webster’s or Spell Check, but I think it definitely defines my dependency upon coffee). Indeed, I begin each and every morning with at least two cups (sometimes three) of 100% Columbian coffee. It’s rich and dark; plus, it has a nice aroma and it tastes like coffee should taste, which is not like vanilla or cinnamon or hazel nuts or almonds or chocolate, but plain old coffee. Then, once I complete my morning’s chores and take my bike ride around the neighborhood, since “old” coffee tastes like “old” coffee, I dump whatever Chet hasn’t consumed into the sink and put a fresh pot on to brew. Once ready, this second pot will be emptied while I check my online classes, answer e-mails, grade student papers, and tend to other work-related tasks. And this means that by noon, I have usually consumed an average of five to six cups of Columbian dark roast coffee. But that is only the beginning. I will make another pot in the mid-afternoon, another at dinner, and if I teach on campus, which means I come dragging into the house around 10:30 at night, I will make yet another pot of coffee the moment I walk through the door.

“What?” you gasp. “Do you really drink that much coffee in one day?”

Yes, I do, but that’s not my point.

With an audible groan, you say, “You mean there’s a point.”

Yes, there is, and I’m getting there; but first I’m going to confess something: As I said, I love “real” coffee, but I will admit that the last pot I brew on any given day is more likely than not Folgers Gourmet Vanilla Biscotti or Chocolate Truffle. Why? I don’t know. It just tastes good, although maybe, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I equate flavored coffees with high society and a part of me likes to pretend that I am one of what George W. Bush calls “the haves and have-mores” in that scene in Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11. Then again, Folgers Gourmet coffees are only $4.88 for a pound bag at Wal-Mart, and I’m sure George and Friends pay far more for their gourmet coffees than any piddling $4.88 (And we, the taxpayers, are footing the bill).

“Oh, good lord,” you say, rolling your eyes; “Woman, do you have a point?”

Yes, I do have a point, and my point is this: A pound bag of Folgers Gourmet coffee costs $4.88, and that pound bag will last at least a week, maybe longer, depending upon how often I make coffee from it; and, as you may or may not know, it costs just about that much to buy one large cup of cappuccino at Starbucks. That’s right, one cup of coffee. I know this for a fact because around a week ago, my students were taking their evening break and one said she was going to Starbucks and, if I wanted anything, she would pick up it up for me. Thinking a cup of coffee would be good around about then, I handed her a five-dollar bill, which was the smallest—as well as the only—denomination bill I had in my purse as I said, “Sure, a cup of cappuccino would be nice. Thank you very much.” 

Well, when she returned, first the student handed me my large cappuccino; then she handed me my change. And change it was, all right, as in a few small coins. So, there I was. First, I stared at those coins resting in the palm of my hand; then I stared at the cup of cappuccino in my other hand; and that was when I swore I could hear my daddy, God rest his soul. And do you know what? He was laughing fit to be tied (a Southern expression), that’s what. I could also easily picture him raising one eyebrow in that way he had, glancing over at Saint Peter, and saying, “Well, sir, reckon I raised an idiot.” After all, regardless of how much a person loves coffee and regardless of how addicted he or she might be to caffeine, only an idiot is going to shell out five hard-earned dollars for one lousy cup-o-joe. Well, make that only an idiot or one of those “haves” or “have-mores.” But then, unlike this idiot, they can afford it.