I wrote this a few weeks ago for our volunteer newsletter. The only coffee available to us here in the Philippines is instant powdered coffee. I was at school dreaming of real coffee one day when I remembered my first experience with the stuff back in 1994.

I am sitting here writing in my journal while drinking some “coffee”—the finest 3 in 1 instant powder brew to be had in these parts. I do not miss many things here in the Philippines; I can survive ok without hot showers, fast food in the States just made me fat and ESPN has wasted more hours of my life than I would care to admit. However, good, real coffee is one thing I do enjoy and miss. My first brush with coffee is etched vividly in my mind.

As neither of my parents ever drank the stuff, it was always exotic and mysterious to me while growing up—it was something people other than my parents drank. Friends’ parents would drink it after I spent the night at their house teachers would sip it behind the restricted doors of the Teacher’s Lounge and old people, like my grandparents, would drink it en masse during coffee hour after service at church. It was at one of these coffee hours where I found my first temptation from the glorious beans I so delight in calling close friends these days.

Now, if you have never gotten the chance to experience a coffee hour at a small, Midwestern church, I pity you. I really do. You are missing a necessary life-experience, like seeing the Great Wall of China or stopping at Wall Drug in South Dakota. Allow me to paint a picture for you: Coffee Hour seems to inevitably be held in the church basement. True, sometimes they are upstairs in some sort of multi-purpose room, but you will find the finest Coffee Hours in the basement The basement will likely be adorned with peeling, faux wood paneling. Folding chairs filled with bulging hulks of farmers and their pretty wives will be sitting huddled around folding tables—the same tables hauled upstairs for the women’s bake sale in May, and on which various Christmas decorations will be placed in November. Coffee cake and other delectable items from the local grocery store (half-off when you buy the day old goodies) will sit placed on the counter. Of course, amidst this all, there is coffee. Everyone (again, except for my parents) will be sipping a steaming cup, talking about crops, weather, or the football team. Coffee hour was the reward of making it through another week, another sermon.

It was in exactly this environment where I found myself one fine day many years back. We were in the basement of the Fremont United Methodist Church visiting my grandparents at their church. My grandparents’ church is an aged one—not the building itself per se, but more the people. Most of the people there are, well, older. Old people seem to drink coffee exponential to their age, so naturally, there is always quite a bit of coffee to be had at their church. I sat and listened to crop and weather and football reports, coupled with choruses of “You must be Johnny’s grandson” or “I remember when you were this big.” As my awkwardly disproportioned, acne-splattered, side-spiked 14 year-old self took this all in, I felt caged. Caged by a sea of gray hair, blue suits, giant broaches and the aroma of bulk coffee being drank by the gallon all around me. My watered-down, orangeish-flavored drink was gone and I needed an avenue to escape this cheek-pinching carnage, so I quickly shook myself out of my stupor with a voice-cracking “I’ll be right back.” I deftly scurried away but, alas, when I arrived to the drink-counter, there was no more cold beverage to be had— orangeish or otherwise. I did not want to return quite yet to stories told by these German farmers, most of them distant relatives, but what to do?

As I slowly turned in a full circle, unsure of where my next step should be, my eyes were suddenly transfixed by a twinkling light. There, in the corner of the table, sat twin glimmering, gleaming, highly-polished aluminum canisters with the ominous warnings—“Regular” and “Decaf.” Those words seemed exotic in my non-bean world—a world in which the only fix of mind-blowing caffeine I knew was found only in the words “Coke” or “Diet.” I had obviously heard the words “Regular” and “Decaf” at restaurants, parties, and of course, church basements for years, but I had never been face to face with them like this before. It was as if Kelly McGillis had magically peeled herself off of the screen of Top Gun to materialize right in front of me in the flesh. I could deal with seeing her on the screen, but not with the real thing. I was tongue tied, my mouth was dry, my silk shirt was clinging to my back. Regardless of my misgivings, I decided, it was time. This was going to be the day. This was my destiny. I had to have this forbidden fruit.

With trembling hands and an unsure step, I moved slowly towards the stacks of upturned Styrofoam towers, removing the topmost one, choosing it as my chalice of fortune. With head spinning and sweat dripping, I turned to the steaming, hissing monsters. What I had at first thought to be a necessary step in my passage into manhood now seemed ridiculous. Did I really need to do this? YES! Something inside me screamed. You must! You have to do this! But choose—choose wisely. With eyes darting back and forth from one sparkling container to the other, I quietly mouthed the words to myself. Regular. Decaf. Regular. Decaf. I did not know the difference between the two. What did those words mean?! With a deep breath and a feeling of pure adrenaline, I veered to the left and, moments later, steamy, black “Regular” goodness oozed into my cup. The warmth and the weight of the disposable container felt good—it felt right. I cupped my prize with both hands and bent my head over the concoction, greedily breathing in the intoxicating fumes and eyes nervously flitting around to see if my shenanigans had been witnessed by anyone. A smile crept over my face. A smile of triumph, of conquest, of battling the unknown and slaying the beast. As I moved away from the counter I thought to myself, This is what it’s like to be a grown-up. This is what it’s like to live. I directed my short breaths towards the top of my prize, gingerly attempting to cool it for my eventual victory consumption. With one last glance around, I slowly raised the cup to my lips, gave a final cooling puff, and ultimately, destiny was fulfilled.

As the java sloshed its way through my mouth and slowly trickled down my throat, one thought ran through my mind. As the Drink seeped into my body, changing me forever, I could only think one thing. Yuck! This is disgusting! After the message moved from my taste receptors and slowly made its way over and through the billions of synapses of my brain, I finally sputtered, coughed and swallowed. Why would people want to drink this? It tastes like—well—boiled beans. I do not know quite what I expected. I think I expected to drink something akin to liquid gold, but even then I was not exactly sure how it was supposed to taste. A full half-glass later, my attempt at exorcising fear and experiencing grown-upped-ness was cut short as I quickly tossed the disgusting beverage into the nearest trash can, filled with a sudden urge to empty my bowels. As I strode to the bathroom, past the crowds of gossiping farmers happily drinking the sludge I had just forced down, I was happy. I was not happy my intestines felt like they were going to burst, or that my mouth tasted like the inside of my old baseball cleats. I was happy I had faced manhood and the challenge of the unknown and had not drawn down. With this happiness, though, I was confused. Why would so many people willingly allow this goop to invade their bodies? It would be years later in the magical far off land of Germany when I would finally understand the delicate balance involved in adequately preparing this magical drink. Through intense observation and repeated trial and error, I would finally stumble upon the perfect mixture of cream, sugar, and that glorious, magnificent coffee. This beverage would eventually come to be a warm comfort to me through hundreds of conversations, both meaningless and world-altering, and join me on unnumbered adventures through books, term papers and amateur guitar players of all sorts and colors. Though my first experience in that mid-Michigan church basement amidst the crows of farmers and family was by no means perfect, I find myself now irresistibly drawn to coffee. Even if it is a perfectly mixed 3 in 1 instant beverage posing as the real coffee I now know and love, this beverage has become a vital part of my life and will, doubtless, continue to join me for many years to come.

As a side note, this was written only days before a brand new French Press and REAL, yummy coffee was delivered to me from our good friend Ari-Anne in Hawaii. Thank you soooo much for that!