Coffee is ingrained into the Southern culture as strongly as meat gravy and biscuits are. Factually speaking, it may be even more so. While coffee newbies and socialites prefer their coffee in a plastic cup with fancy schmancy favors and fluffy whipped cream added, having sophisticated names such as lattes, cappuccinos and such, real true coffee diehards prefer theirs in a coffee cup or mug with a little sugar and cream and more often than not, just straight out black. (AKA: nothing but coffee).
I grew up drinking coffee on Grandma Hudspeth’s front porch amidst my parents, aunts, uncles and other near and dear kin. While they were sipping on their hot steaming cups of brew and biting into a fresh biscuit, I was enjoying a cup of ‘milk coffee’. Milk coffee was that special concoction of two-thirds milk and one-third actual coffee that every grandma supplied for her grandchildren back in the day. It was, if you please, a mild introduction to the strong coffee wonderfulness that would follow in a few years!
The coffee pot that sat on Grandma Hudspeth’s stove was one of the old tin ones that sported a homemade drip liner attached to a wire circle at the top. It was officially called a drip pot. Fresh coffee was added to the fabric liner (which was made of an old flour sack and sometimes even a new sock) and hot water was added. The concoction was then left to drip and the result, as they say, was lip smacking good. The grounds were later added to the big bucket that sat under her sink which housed all the scraps, dishwater and leftovers from the day. This delicacy was then fed to fuel the hogs who gulped it down like it was fine fare.
Coffee at Grandma’s house was served routinely every morning and again at 2:00 pm. Anyone and everyone in the vast family were welcome to come and partake and there was never a shortage of participants or sharing of the latest news and gossip. It was family time at its best.
I can still smell that coffee.
In later years, coffee was the beverage of choice when I visited my mama in her lovely two-story blue house on a prominent hill between Jena and Whitehall. Her coffee pot wasn’t a drip pot, but was electric, and she added plenty of sugar and creamer to all three or four cups she drank – a habit that soon became my own. She and I would sit on her back porch sipping the warm brown deliciousness, enjoying her beautiful array of flowers while solving the world’s problems. I wouldn’t trade those cups of coffee or those conversations for a million bucks. I now remember and celebrate her soft smile and beautiful face on mornings when I’m sitting and enjoying my first cup of Community.
These days, Kirk and I each have a coffee pot setting on the kitchen counter. His is filled to the tip top with caffeinated goodness. Mine sets with a couple of cups of decaf as I can no longer handle the surge of energy and brain jitteriness that accompanies caffeinated coffee. He drinks his almost black and I load lots of sweetener and hazelnut creamer to my cup – a tribute to the goodness Grandma Hudspeth and Mama both heaped into my memory. We settle into our recliners and enjoy our cups of coffee and each other’s presence.
The sweet smell and taste of coffee begins our day the same way it began each day of our parents’ and our grandparents’ days. It’s tradition. It’s memories. It’s like being wrapped in a warm blanket of comfort of mama’s arms or Grandma’s love. It’s God’s good blessings in a simple cup of distinguished coffee aroma that’s good to the last sip. It’s one of my favorite smells, tastes, and memories.
