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. Every member of my family drank it: Mama, Sissy, Grandma, Grandpa, Great Aunt Virginia, and my Great Grandma May. Morning, afternoon, and 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 her coffee. Sometimes a story hit just so and brought out a smile or laugh. Every once in a while, she shook her head softly, amazed by whatever she had read.

Then came that look after the first sip.

That settled it.

A full investigation was warranted.

By eight, I considered myself good at tactical acquisitions. Never mind the accumulated evidence involving arrest, discovery, confession, punishment, and property being returned to its rightful owners. Those details never damaged 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 live 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 ticking away.

Mama would 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 just 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 understood none of that. I knew only that Mama’s coffee tasted serious, grown, and completely worth stealing a sip.

That one stolen taste held the mystery of every grown-up morning I had watched from the outside. Warm coffee. A little milk. Rich flavor followed by something rounder and softer. The scent wafted into my face while the warmth moved through my chest.

I was in love with the experience.

I understood immediately why Mama kept the cup close.

Naturally, I wanted more.

Greed has a way of matching little boys with trouble at the very 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 not for kids.

I quite disagreed.

That morning I learned disagreement carried no force in Mama’s kitchen.

I asked for my own cup.

Mama laughed.

“No. Coffee is for adults.”

No questions allowed.

No explanation.

Just the way it was.

That was the first time she asked me, “What part of no don’t you understand?”

I left the dining room infuriated by the injustice.

Some people would call it a pout.

I considered it a temporary reprieve 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 made it clear to Mama that she could not watch me on any day ending in y. Apparently, I had ruined childcare for her.

Belinda quit without notice, told the neighbors I probably needed an exorcism, and made it clear she would never watch me again.

Trina went home one evening and was rarely seen in our neighborhood after that.

Something about my catching her purse on fire.

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

I knew the purse was not real.

That screamed INVESTIGATE.

So I investigated using 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 place us.

That meant Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I loved going there.

I loved my Grandma and Grandpa, though there were moments when Grandpa’s reciprocal feelings appeared open to interpretation.

He was proud that I loved words and could read the newspaper fluently at four years old. 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 that I use my brain for something beyond growing hair.

Their home carried its own style.

Southern.

Grandma came from Alabama.

Grandpa was a proud Okie with plenty of Texas ingrained in him.

Grandma made food that filled their home with aromas of “yes,” “oh, my goodness,” and “yes, please.” Grandpa had his chair, his rules, his voice, and a yardstick he kept within reach.

Their home felt steady, though 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 whether I could have coffee.

Grandpa looked at me.

He had a particular expression for moments when foolishness took over. That look meant the decision had already been made.

Coffee in the hands of an eight-year-old Bryan-David represented safety concerns. 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 did the opposite.

Coffee had become forbidden knowledge.

It belonged to mornings, kitchens, family conversation, work, fatigue, 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 his chair.

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

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

I admitted that.

My confession bought me zero inches of ground.

The wildest part of me decided I was finished accepting no, at least where coffee was concerned.

I slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a cup. Milk first, followed by 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 of coffee, 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.

Fresh-brewed coffee carried love, adventure, family, ritual, and the thrill of risking consequences for the experience.

It was Mama preparing herself for work.

Grandma welcoming people into her kitchen.

Grandpa settling into his chair after working hard all day.

It was warmth held between two hands.

Conversation before the house became busy.

The Argus spread across the table.

A robe tied at the waist.

The smell of family awake and sharing the morning.

That first sip stayed with me for life.

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, and the difference between coffee made carelessly and coffee made with respect.

The investigation never ended.

It grew up.

I still buy Folgers.

Sometimes the familiar Colombian roast.

Other times, Black Silk.

Certain flavors remain tied to memory long after the palate has grown more experienced. Folgers carried me back to family kitchens, morning newspapers, Mama at our table, Grandma beside the stove, and Grandpa settled into his chair.

During my years in Kansas City, Missouri, I spent time beside the mighty Missouri River at sunrise or sunset, close enough to the Folgers roasting plant for the air to carry the heavy aroma of coffee.

That scent made the river feel greater.

Riverboats and barges moved through the water while light changed across the surface. I would sit there and write for a spell, breathing in roasting coffee, watching the current carry everything forward, and knowing those quiet hours would become memories I would keep for the rest of my life.

I was right.

Years later, Mama and I share coffee whenever I visit.

French press.

Porcelain cups.

Expensive Cup of Luxury coffee.

A splash of milk for Mama.

Made with love.

Perfect.