Sorry, no swarmy x-rated Lady Marmalade escapade here. Wanted to write about my not-so-secret vice, my overwhelming addiction to all things caffeine. Yes, yes, I know I also am hopelessly hooked on my IPhone but I can put it down when necessary (usually when a cop is pulled up next to me when I am driving or it is covered with slightly sticky, partially caked on snot after the Mad Cow hands it over to me after a long drive).
When I was little, coffee was strictly forbidden to those of us under 18. Nevermind that my Grandpa and every uncle on my Dad's side (calabash and biological) would let us sip from any open brown bottle of Primo beer all day long, alcohol was permissible but coffee was absolutely, positively forbidden. Back when I was little (pre-Flintstone era), the common thought was that if you gave a kid coffee, it would stunt his or her growth. As the tallest person on both sides of the family was a Munchkin sized 5 feet 6 inches (on tip toe), none of the jijis or babas were willing to take a chance with our generation of kidlets. Nobody was allowed to drink anything with coffee in it - we were even rationed one coffee candy a week and could only have a small scopp of kona coffee ice cream. We could stick our faces over the piping hot cups and get 3rd degree burns as we greedily and illicitly inhaled the fumes of adulthood.
When I watch those television dramas that always have a slow motion, highly choreographed scene of someone cooking and shooting heroin, the beautifully agonizing display of badness triggers flashbacks to my Grandma's kitchen in McCully. I would sit intently at the kitchen table and watch her daily routine of instant coffee making. Grandma would always put in 1/2 a teaspoon of Folgers Coffee (nothing but Folgers would do, it was like the Bob Sevey of coffee in my Grandparents house. Always appeared at the same time and loyalty to is was unfadeable). 2 teaspoons of sugar (hence the required switch to sweet and low brought on by diabetes) and about 1/2 a can of carnation milk. Grandma would mix everything together and then add the hot water. She would mix twice and that was it. I never saw her take a sip to make sure it was right or if anything else was needed. Like a crack head, she knew with total accuracy how to cook up her recommended daily fix.
It was heavenly, sitting and sniffing up every bit of coffee aroma that my flat little nose could pull away from Grandma. Combine that with the smell of frying ham patties, orange marmalade, toast crumbs and Grandma's white face powder and it was like sensory nirvana. Of course, being the evil person that I am, the moment my Grandma put her spoon down and turned her back, I shoved it into my mouth to take that first little hit of Java. Oooooh, so bitter but so good.
As a totally neurotic eldest daughter of two Japanese parents, I abided by the total terror put into me about the perils of coffee and did not drink any until I reached 18. By then, I was already experimenting with coke (coca cola that is). I was never without an open can of coke (only the classic, never the new or the clear one) no matter what time of day it was. Like my Grandparents allegiance to Folgers, I was a Coke girl. Even when John Belushi shouted loud from Saturday Night Live, "No Coke, Pepsi", I didn't switch. I did dally a bit in Pepsi when Michael Jackson was the spokesperson but once his Jheri curl caught on fire, it was too disturbing to drink. Kept having thoughts of a juiced up crispy part of Michael's hair sititng at th bottom of the can.
When I finally turned 18 and was allowed to have coffee, I was probably happier to have that first sip of the black stuff than I was to take my first drink. I readily volunteered to be the DD since I could drink cup after cup of coffee while everyone else were yotta yotta to the max. I felt happy to help my friends (and chase the caffinated dragon) and knew that having 8 cups of coffee instead of 8 shots of Midori would prevent me from waking up passed out in an unknown place with someone else's underwear on.
I wasn't a bougie coffee drinker - perfectly happy with (yes) my giant jar of Folgers coffee from Sam's Club and on splurge days, something highly sugary and sort of barf-inducing flavor wise (apple pie, pumpkin cobbler, banana foster) from a machine at 7-11. On days when I feel particularly evil, I go into one of those corporate coffee places and splurge on having an extra shot or two added to my three shot regular latte. I know you all know the answer to whether I used to drink the 8 shot macchiato at Starbucks. Yes, yes, yes (make orgasmic noises like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally".
Looking back, I realize now that I could have had all the coffee I wanted back when I was a small shrimp since I am still a very height-challenged 5' 3" ball of raggedy fluff. However, maybe it would have been worse if I did drink coffee when I wasn't supposed to? After all, my Grandparents did warn me that if I sat on the coffee table in the living room, I would grow up to have a huge okole and uh, that turned out to be true.
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