My first coffee
Coffee had a mean, dark, acrid taste; she and I were not friends.
It was a hard walk over sand and stones down into the cave. My daddy picked me up and carried me the last half mile to the bottom. I was 5. “At the bottom, we’ll find a place where we can get something to drink,” he said. Way down - 750 feet - there was a cafeteria that smelled like wet dirt and burnt coffee. My dad sat me down in a white leather booth, walked away and came back with a small cup. “Here you go, Honey. Maybe this coffee will make you feel better,” he said. Taking a spoonful of coffee, he doctored it with lots of sugar and milk. I thought it looked a bit like coca cola and I was happy to get my first grown-up drink. But the taste of the 1950s, “good to the very last drop," hit me with a searing headache. Coffee had a mean, dark, acrid taste and she and I were not friends. Why would anyone drink that stuff?
Kathleen Barry Fitts. Maureen and Bill.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the end of my relationship with coffee. Years later, she apologized for our first meeting. She later introduced me to the warm aroma of fine espresso in the coffee shops of Tokyo. My first cup, slow brewed, took 24 hours to process. She called herself, Aisu Kohi (iced coffee). She taught me that any relationship that she might have to that awful Folgers Coffee at the bottom of the cave was merely accidental.
Kathleen Fitts. Maureen and her daddy.
Today I own a burr grinder, a knock box, and an expensive silver Breville espresso machine which promises to ‘use the right dose of freshly ground beans, ensure precise temperature control, optimal water pressure, and create true micro-foam milk to deliver a harmonious blend of golden espresso and velvety textured milk.’ I know! And, a million miles away from that over-cooked and headache producing cup of coffee lurking down in the cave.
Words: Maureen Fitzmahan
Photos: Kathleen Fitts
Maureen Fitzmahan is cofounder of the Art Junket (2015-2022).