Sunday, May 10, 2009


My wild Scottish hairdresser and I were discussing coffee -- the yearning and need thereof -- when I recalled my earliest coffee experience. My family lived in New York, and I was so little I crawled upstairs to another apartment to visit the elderly woman from somewhere in East Europe or the Middle East. Unfortunately, I don't remember that detail. She didn't speak English and I barely did either at that age, so we were fine companions. She served me coffee, black and thick, probably boiled. That was our occasional tea party. Sometimes, I tried to reach the sugar or butter or some pretty trinket on her cloth-covered kitchen table. I can still feel her hands, grasping my small body in toddler overalls and putting it back in the chair. I believe the coffee must have imprinted in my cells, because I still love it dark and strong, and I need it like a a sprout needs water.


catiporter said...

Sounds like Turkish coffee to me! Yum! I'm a caffeine addict myself.

Anonymous said...

What a delightful memory, Pat -- or I mean Trisha! I could just picture it. Very well written.


Anonymous said...

Oops -- spelled your name wrong! Tricia, not Trisha. My bad.


Tricia J. O'Brien said...

Thanks Cati and Lynn,
I love the way sensory things, such as an old song or the smell of coffee brewing, can bring memories back with a rush. Sometimes, it it a truly visceral sensation, almost like traveling back in time. (But perhaps that's another blog) Pat/Tricia

Nancy said...

Lovely blog. I'm inspired that you find the time to write it and still bring words to share on Tuesday nights.