"Coffee: A Veneration of Ancestors"

Coffee isn’t something you fall into; it’s something that someone else leads you to, and that's probably because the initial taste isn't pleasant, and it requires coercion from a loved one, lol.

But coffee is celestial with two creams and two sugars (my grandma's favorite combo), because it makes for a great energy boost and bonding moment. For me, that’s what coffee is—a moment to bond with myself or whoever I am drinking coffee with, and this all began with my grandma, a Louisiana-born woman named Lucille.

I can’t remember my first taste of coffee, but I know I didn’t have a good cup until I met my grandma—I called her Granny. 

When I met her, I was thirteen and had just lost my mama. I met my granny at my mama’s funeral, just a few hours before I met my dad, and I instantly knew that if I was going to survive this new phase in life, I was going to need her. 

I immediately learned about her love for coffee and her bigger love of sharing it with her family.  Anyone who stopped by her house was quick to ask for a cup of freshly percolated coffee—they brought donuts and other sweet treats as offerings to go along with it. 

Despite Granny constantly shooing me out of the kitchen, I stood my ground and convinced her to show me the tricks to make the best pot of coffee just like her. I wanted to evoke that same peace and joy. 

She had a percolator; it was silver, and it shone as if it were new, but it wasn’t. She took great care of this percolator and swore that it made the best coffee. It was loud, and it gurgled a lot, but it made a strong cup of coffee, and that was all she wanted—many times she pointed out who couldn’t make a good cup of coffee in the family; she abhorred weak coffee. 

Well, I had to learn how to make strong coffee then. 

A pot of coffee for myself, my grandma, and my aunties usually called for 6-8 tablespoons of Folger’s Classic coffee grounds paired with 6-8 cups of water. We never measured exactly; we scooped just enough and waited for the ancestors to tell us if it was enough. 99.9 out of the many times I made coffee for her, I made it to perfection. It became an expression of love for her and me, and any rough day could be turned into a loving one with just an offer of coffee.

Our apologies to each other became, “I made a pot of coffee if you want some,” or “Do you want me to make a pot of coffee?” And it worked for us. If we couldn’t find any other way to say “I love you,” we found it in coffee…the way we served it to each other and laughed over warm steaming cups with two creams and two sugars…the way we laughed and gossiped and told outrageous jokes. It was in those moments I didn’t grieve—I didn’t have a chance to, because I was surrounded by love and warmth. Coffee was one of the things that seemed to keep me sane when she died, because it tethered me to her.

My granny has been gone for seven years, but she’s never far away from me, because I have coffee, and the memories of her and me laughing over coffee. Rarely do I miss a day to sip a cup in her honor; so when I think of coffee or drink it, I’m not drinking it for the taste or even for the energy; I’m drinking it to commune with her one more time.

Granny, here’s a cup of coffee in your honor.