I can still picture my petite grandmother slightly hunched over the kitchen counter scooping Folgers coffee into the percolator as I stood at her side counting out loud each heaping tablespoon until she dumped the sixth scoop into the filter basket and ignited the gas stove.
Having had seven children, including my mom, her house in northeast Philadelphia was a revolving door of kids and grandkids seven days a week. The percolator would whistle and my mom-mom would pour cups of coffee and serve pieces of homemade pound cake for everyone in the room before sitting at the head of the table, lighting a cigarette and taking a delicate first sip to avoid burning her mouth. Coffee is about love and sharing.
The coffee conversation centered around the grandchildren, family gossip, Philadelphia politics, a crazy episode of The Jerry Springer Show or perhaps drama unfolding in other houses on the block picked up by a police scanner on the dining room table that could tap into the frequency of cordless phones nearby. (No wonder why I became a nosy reporter!) If the phone call was juicy enough, people would literally peel back the curtains and press their faces to the front window in a hurried attempt to witness any action outside. Needless to say, I loved those conversations with family gathered around the table and everyone’s hands cupped around a warm mug. Coffee is about conversation and connection.
My mom was an avid fan of yard sales. She kept a running list of addresses from advertisements in the newspaper, Craigslist and neon signs stapled to street poles. No matter how late we stayed up on a Friday night, the coffee pot was dripping by 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning so we could get out the door by 7 a.m. to the first sale. Not everyone in the family loved the weekly six-hour bargain hunt but I loved going most of the time — especially when I got alone time with my mom and could sit shotgun. But sitting shotgun and driving from sale to sale was a dangerous sport! My mom never cared for a travel mug — a tumbler with a tight lid to prevent any spillage. And because she didn’t like travel mugs, neither did I. We’d hop in the minivan with our open-top porcelain coffee mugs and the first test came with a bump at the end of the driveway as the car was still in reverse. It took raising our mugs to chin level and then moving it with timely precision above our eyes just before the car went over the bump to avoid anything from spilling. Then, we were on our way! Without fail, within a few minutes my mom would spot a neon green or pink sign from a distance advertising a yard sale that was not on her list. “Sign!” she would call out. “Can you read it? What does it say? What direction?” I would sit up straight in a defensive position and squint my eyes so hard to read the handwriting on the poster board. I’d respond, “Not yet. Almost. I can’t see. Wait. Slow down!” She wasn’t slowing down. Sometimes all we could see was an arrow. “Hold on!” my mom would say. “Watch your cup!” I’d brace for a sharp turn by putting two hands on the mug and shifting it slightly forward so any spillage would land on the floor mat. We would rather the coffee spill everywhere than miss the turn and miss the bargains that await us. Over the course of an entire childhood, I learned the art of balancing coffee in a mug while driving down bumpy roads, around tight turns and quickly approaching red lights. To this day, people ask me why I don’t just use a travel mug. Surely, it’s a simple solution. I always smile and repeat some version of, “Well, when I was younger my mom would take me to yard sales” and I laugh every single time. Coffee is about bonding.
My dad would often reiterate the old wives’ tale that coffee would stunt my growth — only allowing me to have it occasionally — but I was drinking coffee almost everyday by the time I was 12. My parents would make a 12-cup pot — sometimes two pots — and truthfully I thought drinking coffee made me seem more adult. I liked making coffee, mixing in the cream and sugar and refilling my parents’ cups. All these years later, I still think I missed my calling as a professional barista! By 16, I had a Keurig machine on the desk in my bedroom where I’d sip coffee and rotate between homework, editing articles for my high school newspaper and updating my “to-do list” on the dry erase board mounted to the wall. When I got to college, the heavenly smell of my morning coffee helped me do some of my best writing between 5-7 a.m. before my 8 a.m. classes started. Even now, I prefer writing before the sun comes up when my thoughts are most organized. Coffee is about passion and productivity.
Nowadays I really enjoy the art of making a perfect cup — trying coffee from different regions, sampling different blends, testing grind sizes and adjusting the coffee-to-water ratio during my pour-over routine. My day doesn’t start without coffee and I set aside extra time in the morning so I don’t rush the process. Pour-over takes a bit longer than my Nespresso (which I use in the afternoons) but I use the time in the morning to reflect on my day and prioritize what needs to get done. As much as coffee keeps me going, the process of making my first cup is the stillest and most relaxing part of the day. Coffee is about creating and reflecting.
I started my European backpacking trip with two blank legal pads and two blank spiral-bound reporter’s notebooks to jot down my thoughts and detail the interesting people I would meet. It wasn’t until the third week of my trip when I thought it might be fun to start a blog to share my journey. “What will I name the blog?” I thought. I had traumatic flashbacks to when I tried launching a blog called “A Cup O’ Joe” that someone later told me was overused and wouldn’t perform well even with proper search engine optimization. I digress. I knew I had to pick something and stick with it! I tossed around the idea of “The Break.” with a heavy emphasis on the period in the logo to represent a period of rest to read the blog. It was mediocre, at best. I got so frustrated thinking about a damn blog name that I considered scrubbing the idea altogether. A few days later, I walked into a gift shop in Stockholm and spotted a blue plate with yellow writing on the shelf explaining the cherished custom of Fika!
“Fika is a social institution in Sweeden: It means having a break, most often a coffee break, with one’s colleagues, friends, date or family. The word “Fika” can serve as both a verb and noun. Swedes consider having coffee an important part of the culture. You can Fika at work by taking a ‘coffee break,’ Fika with someone like a ‘coffee date,’ or just drink a cup of coffee.”
The Coffee Break blog was born!
I had never heard of Fika, yet it perfectly explains the importance of coffee. Coffee is community.
“The Coffee Break” name encompasses a lot about me personally: my love for coffee, my travel break and my passion for writing and connecting with others. More importantly, the name represents what we all need — frequent breaks — to love, share, connect, bond and reflect. We need community now more than ever and coffee might just be our secret weapon.
The Coffee Break 
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