A Spirited Defense of the Signiﬁcance of Blueberry Coffee
Faithful readers of this blog know that, while I’ve spent the last four years in Boston, I remain a Midwesterner to my core. On my last day of high school, I promised my headmaster that I wouldn’t let the East Coast change me, and I like to think I’ve come pretty close to keeping it. When I graduate in May, odds are good that I’ll never come back to this city, even for a visit. But despite standing athwart a dramatically different culture and yelling “stop!,” I’ve given in to one New England custom: excessive consumption of blueberry ﬂavored coffee.
Okay, “excessive” might be a poorly-chosen word (one of thousands, since I took over this blog). But trust me, the stuff is so much better than it sounds. I’ve always been, and remain, a black coffee drinker who is highly suspicious of anything that could taint the beverage’s integrity. But while I still refuse to put anything in it, waking up to a smell that’s equal parts coffee and blueberry mufﬁn never gets old. It’s not exactly a highbrow drink, but I’ve made it a part of my weekly ritual that won’t go away anytime soon.
Guys, I know this isn’t a coffee blog. I promise I’m getting to a point here. Blueberry coffee is my weekend tradition. I drink it every Saturday and Sunday morning, but never anytime else. It’s taken on a signiﬁcance that far outweighs its quality of taste. Weekend mornings are when I’m at my most creative. It’s when I have no obligations to get anything else done, and can achieve what I really want to achieve.
Beyond that, my beloved fruit coffee has given me something that’s just mine. A routine to make sure weekends stay special in my increasingly fast-paced existence. Life is what you make of it, and it’s the little details that make the whole thing worth living. I hope all of you can ﬁnd your blueberry coffee, something that breaks up the mundanity and makes your special days a little more special.
Discerning About Everything Except Coffee