Like a lot of people, I am addicted to coffee. I know this because my relationship to it is not solely defined by how it tastes and the effect it has. There is also a ritualistic aspect to my coffee consumption too.
Coffee is the one ‘vice’ that I let myself off the hook about. This is in part because I always drink my coffee black without sugar (an Americano or a filter coffee). I am certainly not given to Frappucinos, or any of those ridiculously calorific drinks that people seem so keen on spending exorbitant sums of money on in Starbucks.
No. I keep it simple and strong.
I don’t take ‘nootropics’, because, having ruined my life once with drugs, I’m not keen to repeat the experience, even if these substances really are benign (which, given they’re basically amphetamines, I’m not sure about).
Therefore, if I’m looking for energy and mental alertness, which I always am, then coffee really is the only game in town.
I don’t even spend that much on my habit. At home I always buy ‘instant’ coffee—the stuff that comes in jars in granules that you simply poor hot water on.
Where I do begin to get a little fetishistic is with the brand. I always buy exactly the same one—Alta Rica coffee from Nescafe.
The taste is fantastic—in my estimation better than the taste of some machine-made coffees you get in cafes. But I also love the colours of the packaging—the purple hue in particular.
Finally—and this has been the case for many years—I love the way it feels when I put my teaspoon through the silver foil protective cover they always use to keep the coffee fresh.
Each morning when I wake up the first thing I do is try (and usually fail) to check my social media feeds, or read anything about politics. Then I say a quick prayer (I am agnostic, but it’s part of my 12 step programme so I do it anyway). And then I roll, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen where I make myself a coffee.
Then, armed with that steaming beverage, I head back into the bedroom for my morning meditation.
That first sip of black coffee is something close to spiritual. I am taking the sacrament. I imbue the liquid, hot and bitter on my tongue, with a sort of divine power. Even though its effect on me, ameliorated by years of use, is likely lessened greatly by now, I still believe that it will give me some superhuman purchase on the tasks I have to complete.
I have a quasi-religious belief in its ability, and I imbibe it with a gravity and gratitude which reflects this.
I am no stranger to addictions that far outstay their actual ability to deliver on whatever spurious promise they’ve supposedly made. Alcohol, drugs and indeed sex are all things that I continued to pursue long after they’d ceased to give me the dopamine hit I craved of them. And with coffee it’s the same. It is impossible to say whether it still ‘works’ or not—if I had to guess I’d say it probably doesn’t. But the ritual still fulfils me, and the belief in it sustains me. And for that reason I persist as a happy coffee addict.
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