Just Another Obligatory Blogpost About Coffee - With Bonus Catbomb Photo

Photo by: Lisa L Peters © 2017

Show me a cool kid, a brilliant hipster, an artist, a trendsetter, an edgy, angsty genius...and I'll show you an expertly, overly-engineered circus drink masquerading as a cup of coffee.

Half-cafed, almond milked, buttered, and/or creamed. Cold brewed, frap-iced, art-foamed, and/or steamed. Our coffees have become as much of a fashion forward statement - a declaration of mob-independence- as our ink, our Warby Parkers, and our custom ordered "elevated" toast.

Don't get me wrong: I love coffee. That is, I love me a frothy hot cocoa or a coconutty mocha milkshake sweetened with stevia, lightly dusted with nutmeg, and sporting a shot or two of decaf. And even as I type this, I stare at the screen in horror and mutter out loud, "My god, what have I become?"

I had my first taste of Java before my age hit double digits, thanks to my caffeine-addicted father and my highly persuasive begging skills. It was two parts milk, 15 parts sugar, and 1/2 a part fully caffeinated instant coffee. But to me it was 100% grownup. I had arrived. And there was no turning back.

As I entered my preteen years, I proudly graduated to celebrating the moments of my life with Cafe Vienna and Orange Cappuccino. I was sophisticated. I was...international. I was lapping up the gentrification of elite coffee-esque beverages.

Then in my teens, my dad made a revolutionary purchase: a Mr. Coffee machine. Suddenly I had the power to drip out dark, sultry, steamy coffee an entire pot at a time. I stripped away all pretenses. I dumped the accruements cold turkey and I went black. I lusted after coffee. I dreamed of it anytime I wasn't enveloped in its alluring aroma. I lived for coffee. Some days I even lived on coffee. And many, many sleepless nights...

It turns out that at high doses, coffee is a psychoactive; I am here to testify. It can also cause heart palpitations, irritability, insomnia, and a host of other pesky symptoms. I manifested them all. So I stopped drinking coffee. I refer to this as my dry period.

Fast forward to the age of Starbucks. Suddenly there are fancy coffee peddlers on every street corner offering increasingly exotic temptations. One can embibe without ever grinding a bean. And we do. Daily. Sometimes hourly. For the cost of a pound of moderate quality coffee beans a pop. I've heard tell of jonesing addicts refinancing their mopeds for a Tall Macchiato.

I'm here to propose a radical reform, stop the insanity, and take back coffee. Real coffee. Unsexy, black, pure coffee. If you can't make your own cup of old fashioned joe from grind to sip, maybe you should stick to cucumber water. If you're not willing to take it strong, enjoy it black, unembelished and straight from the brew, maybe you ought to have an Arnold Palmer.

I'm not saying you can't still enjoy a latte from time to time. Or even go decaf if you must. But if like me you've come to only use coffee as a delivery system for creamy chocolaty and caramely goodness, an excuse to drink you're dessert, it's time to either admit you're not a true coffee drinker or put your grinder where your mouth is. Respect the beans, my friends. Respect the beans.