The First Sip

At eight years old, I had a few things figured out.

If mischief was available, I welcomed it.

If trouble had a location, I could find it.

If the adults in my family drank something every morning with that much devotion, I needed answers.

Coffee had my attention.

Folgers.

That red can lived on our kitchen counter and inside the cabinet. Everybody drank it.

Mama.

Sissy.

Grandma.

Grandpa.

Great Aunt Virginia.

Great Grandma May.

Morning, afternoon, evening, somebody always had a cup nearby.

Mama took hers with a splash of milk.

She would sit at the table in her robe, reading The Argus and sipping coffee.

Sometimes a story landed just right and made her smile.

Sometimes she laughed.

Sometimes she shook her head softly at whatever she had just read.

Then came that look after the first sip.

That settled it.

A full investigation was warranted.

By eight, I considered myself highly skilled in tactical acquisitions.

The accumulated evidence involving discovery, confession, punishment, and property being returned to its rightful owners had done very little to damage my confidence.

Mama protected her morning coffee.

When she got up from the table, the cup usually went with her.

Kitchen.

Living room.

Hallway.

Wherever Mama went, coffee followed.

She refilled it throughout the morning.

Always that same look after the first sip.

I had questions.

What did it taste like?

Why did adults need it before speaking to other people?

Why could grown people drink it all day while kids were expected to survive on water and milk?

The entire situation lacked transparency.

I began watching for an opening.

One morning before seven, Mama stood from the table, cinched the tie on her robe, looked at me, smiled, and walked toward her bedroom.

The cup stayed behind.

Bingo.

I moved fast.

That mug felt big in my hands.

Warm.

Heavy.

Adult.

I brought it to my nose and breathed in the way I had seen Mama do a hundred times.

Fresh coffee hit me.

Dark.

Rich.

Deep enough to stop a boy.

Time was running out.

Mama could return any second.

I lifted the cup and took a sip.

There it was.

The mystery.

The reason.

A hard punch of flavor pop landed on my palate.

It hit exactly right.

Years later, I would give that quality a name.

Roastidity.

The full character of the roast arriving through aroma, body, depth, and finish.

At eight years old, I knew none of that.

I only knew Mama’s coffee tasted serious, grown, and completely worth stealing.

Warm coffee.

A little milk.

Richness followed by something rounder and softer.

The scent rose into my face while the warmth moved through my chest.

I was in love with the experience.

Naturally, I wanted more.

Greed has a way of matching little boys with trouble at the exact moment their Mom returns.

The second sip had barely reached my lips when I heard my name.

My full name.

“Bryan-David Scott!”

Every kid understands the legal meaning of a full name delivered from across a room.

I froze with Mama’s coffee in both hands.

She looked at the cup.

She looked at me.

Then she told me coffee was for adults.

I disagreed completely.

That morning I learned disagreement carried very little force in Mama’s kitchen.

I asked for my own cup.

Mama laughed.

“Coffee is for adults.”

Matter settled.

I left the dining room furious at the injustice.

Some people might call it pouting.

I considered it a temporary withdrawal from polite society.

With attitude.

Mama had to work that day, which created a logistical problem because my sitter options had become sorely limited.

Lizzy had made it clear she could watch me on no day ending in y.

Apparently, I had ruined childcare for her.

Belinda quit without notice, told the neighbors I probably needed an exorcism, and disappeared from the rotation.

Trina went home one evening and became scarce in our neighborhood after the purse incident.

Something about me setting it on fire.

Looking back, the fire was an unsupervised inquiry into the flammability of faux leather.

I knew the purse was fake.

That screamed investigate.

So I used the scientific method available to me at the time.

Fire.

If it survived, it was real.

Pure boyhood lunacy.

Try explaining scientific intent to a teenage girl while her purse is smoldering.

Mama needed somewhere safe to put us.

That meant Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I loved going there.

I loved my Grandma and Grandpa, although Grandpa’s reciprocal feelings occasionally appeared open to interpretation.

He was proud that I loved words and had learned to read the newspaper fluently at four. He enjoyed showing me off to friends and people from work.

Then I would do something.

A particular look would cross his face.

He would shake his head and ask me to use my brain for something besides growing hair.

Their house carried its own rhythm.

Southern.

Grandma came from Alabama.

Grandpa was a proud Okie with plenty of Texas built into him.

Grandma made food that filled the house with aromas of yes, oh my goodness, and yes please.

Grandpa had his chair.

His rules.

His voice.

And a yardstick kept within reach.

Their home felt steady.

With me around, something wild could pop off at any time.

Coffee was always brewing there.

Always.

The moment you walked through the door, Folgers was in the air.

The red can.

The dark stream pouring into a cup.

The ritual continuing in another kitchen.

Later that day, I asked Grandma if I could have coffee.

Grandpa looked at me.

He had a particular expression for moments when foolishness had entered the room.

That look meant the decision was already made.

Coffee in the hands of an eight-year-old Bryan-David represented a safety concern.

I carried enough energy to power a city.

Adding caffeine struck them as irresponsible.

I disagreed.

My position changed nothing.

The cup stayed with the grown-ups.

I watched them drink.

Steam rose from the surface while the whole ritual continued beyond my reach.

That should have ended my interest.

It deepened it.

Coffee had become forbidden knowledge.

It belonged to mornings, kitchens, family conversation, fatigue, work, comfort, and the private world of adults.

Mama carried it through the house.

Grandma and Grandpa drank it as naturally as breathing.

I wanted inside that world.

“Please, can I have a cup of coffee? Please, Grandma?”

“Would your mother let you drink coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am. I drink it every day.”

Grandpa raised his voice from the chair.

“Boy! Don’t be lying to your Grandma.”

The truth was, I stole sips whenever opportunity presented itself.

I admitted that.

My confession earned me exactly zero progress.

The wildest part of me decided I was finished accepting the situation.

At least where coffee was concerned.

I slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a cup.

Milk first.

Then a quick pour of coffee.

I drank it right there in the open.

Fifteen feet from Grandpa’s chair.

Grandma yelled my full name.

Grandpa snapped the footrest down and charged toward me.

I took one last drink, tossed the cup onto the counter, and ran.

I believed I could get past him.

Grandpa filled the kitchen doorway.

Giant Okie.

Massive hands.

Zero hesitation.

My escape plan registered 7.5 on the stupid scale.

My love affair with coffee, passionate as it was, lacked romance.

Our relationship had become rocky.

Years passed before I understood what I had really tasted that morning.

Coffee carried family.

Mama preparing herself for work.

Grandma welcoming people into her kitchen.

Grandpa settling into his chair.

The newspaper spread across the table.

A robe tied at the waist.

Conversation before the house became busy.

Warmth held between two hands.

The smell of family awake.

That first sip stayed with me.

The boy who stole coffee from Mama’s cup eventually built a life around flavor pop, hospitality, memory, ritual, and the pursuit of an exceptional cup.

He learned origins.

Roasting.

Water.

Temperature.

Balance.

Aroma.

Finish.

The difference between coffee handled carelessly and coffee handled with respect.

The investigation never ended.

It grew up.

I still buy Folgers.

Sometimes Colombian.

Sometimes Black Silk.

My palate became more experienced.

My work became more exacting.

I spent years studying coffee, developing products, building blends, pursuing flavor, and learning how much intention can live inside a cup.

The red can still carried me home.

During my years in Kansas City, Missouri, I spent time beside the Missouri River at sunrise or near the end of the day, close enough to the Folgers roasting plant for the air to carry that deep aroma of coffee.

I miss those hours.

The river moving.

Barges passing through.

Light changing across the water.

Roasting coffee settling over the landscape.

I would sit there and write for a spell, breathing it in and feeling the distance between childhood and the man I had become.

The aroma brought Mama back to the table.

Grandma back to the stove.

Grandpa back to his chair.

The red can back to the kitchen.

The first stolen sip back to my hands.

That is what a real brand relationship can become.

It moves through generations.

It attaches itself to people, rooms, rituals, cities, work, and memory until the product becomes part of the way a family understands home.

Years later, Mama and I still share coffee when I visit.

French press.

Porcelain cups.

Sometimes Cup of Luxury.

Sometimes Folgers.

Always great conversation.

Always relived memories.

Always laughing about that first sip.

A splash of milk for Mama.

Made with love.

Perfect.