The Night I Drank Espresso During The Year I Gave Up Coffee

What you have to understand about George and Helene is--they are rather dramatic, right on the edge, full-throttle kind of people. One of our get-togethers happened on March 3rd, 2010, when Tom and I were invited to their house for Mexican Chicken. The first course, which we consumed in the kitchen standing around the simmering Mexican Chicken, was Margaritas. The Margaritas were very good, but Helene thought they were a bit weak, so we all got another shot of booze in our glasses. Which really did, in fact, make them better. The double-shot Margaritas went down easy and stimulated all manner of interesting conversation, ranging from prostates to orgasms to Emily Dickinson to yoga. The fire under the Mexican Chicken swimming in green olives and red juice was turned off, and the rice and beans wrapped in tortillas beside it waited patiently for consummation, as we enjoyed ourselves, slowly.

At dinner, every bite was delicious. Beer was served with this main course, and because it was presented as a "bottle of Corolla" (fallout from the Margarita?), we all had a good laugh and then went on to enjoy our Coronas. The beer was perfect because it chased the Mexican bite all the way down.

When I was quite satiated and sure I could not take even one more bite, dessert was set out. Helene, true to her Italian heritage, made me an offer I couldn't refuse. "Look," she said, beaming, "I went to the Wedge for tortes! They're all gluten-free!" And so they were: gluten-free apricot torte, gluten-free raspberry torte, and gluten-free chocolate caramel cream torte. Torte heaven lay in colorful anticipation right before my eyes, any notion of sinful indulgence erased by the lack of gluten. Beautiful. Never mind that I could not take even one more bite.

Then my friend held up a bottle of sparkling champagne. "Asti Gionelli", I read from the label.

"That's Italian!" Helene said.

It was now at the point where I knew I had to acknowledge I was in over my culinary head, and it was time to employ the old internal rationalizations to justify my choices. "Oh what the hell, I'm already into heavy petting, there's no turning back, I'm going all the way, cheers all around!" (An adage that has never failed me.) Then I had a piece of each of the three tasty tortes and washed it all down with champagne (on top of the beer, generous amounts of food, and margaritas).

"Did you ever want to be a nun?" George asked.

"Yes," Helene and I both declared, "A nun, definitely!" And we raised our glasses in frivolous toast to nun-hood and to ourselves.

Dessert was good! Not another bite now. Not another swallow. Have gone over the edge. Move carefully. Let it rest.

That’s when Helene made the announcement, "It's time for coffee." Helene, of course, did not know about my love-hate relationship with the bad black stuff. The love part, justifiably, thrives on that full-bodied aromatic wafting, the rich, heady taste, the way it makes everything all buzzed up and perky. The hate part, unfortunately, stays up all night from a buzz grown old, stomach still churning acid.

"Oh, no. That's where I draw the line,” I said, thinking of my already compromised stomach and what coffee would do to it. “No coffee. Can't do it." Helene looked at me with incredulity, shock on her face.

"It's espresso! You're not having espresso? You have to at least see my contraption...how it's made...how it goes up right here...see?" I watched as she made the expresso, brought out the tiny little dollhouse cups with the tiny little dollhouse handles, poured the four little dollhouse cups full of expresso, and handed me mine. As I raised it to my lips Helene plopped a cube of sugar into it. “Nooooo” I wailed, but it was too late. I drank up the sweet espresso and then had another, without the sugar, to get back the proper balance of dark, rich, strong, deep satisfaction on my pallet. Oh, coffee! Wonderful coffee! As I did so, I knew that my nerves would flash and vibrate like neon-colored street signs all night long as I lay awake. But I also knew, in my present state of mind and physical being, that that present moment was all there was. And I consciously and fully surrendered to it.

That was the night I drank espresso during the year I gave up coffee. I did end up not sleeping until after 4A.M. Since then I've had one more tiny transgression. It happened at Fat Nat's on April 17th. As Tom and I waited for our breakfast to arrive, I received a phone call from sleepy Whitney saying the guy was there to look at the sprinkler system and where was dad? Horrified, he took off, leaving me to eat alone. After he left, there sat his coffee, quietly sizing me up from across the table. I took a couple of dainty sips. It was terrible. Nothing like the espresso swimming dark and full-flavored in Helene’s tiny dollhouse cup. I set it down and pushed it back across the table and out of my life. It wasn’t worth it.

There are now eight months to go, and I’m not sure where they’re going, because I’ve had a metamorphosis. I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like coffee, stopped referring to it as vile. I now own that I am simply a coffee lover in a tea person’s body. Most of the time I will just sniff deeply and walk away. But I also know that sometimes, in the throes of a certain present moment, it’ll be worth it to consciously and completely surrender. And really, that’s what life’s all about, isn’t it?