My mother is 77. Her near-constant pursuit of delight, delivered via baked goods, pastries, and cookies, is adorable. It possesses an unbounded glee from deep within childhood.
She has reintroduced me to the almond horn. As a kid it was never my favorite, but I bought one yesterday at an Italian bakery. In the assortment were pignoli and ricotta cookies, and torrone. While I’ve always loved torrone — softer is better, I’ve had braces twice — asking for the almond horn made me think of Mom.
As she is 77, I’ve been paying a lot more attention to things that bring her joy. For her birthday last month, I brought her favorite flower (hydrangea) in her favorite colors (blue and white), along with a bottle of St Germain, which she recently fell in love with.
And now I’d like to arrange, the next time we are together, an almond horn-off. Six or seven of them from local shops, blind tested, likely devoured over a day or two, and rated. We’ll go back to the source of the winning horn and share this story.
Mom will go back to New York with a box of the winners. She’ll freeze them and enjoy them for the next several years.
I take pleasure in grinding my own coffee beans — the aroma, the sound, the process, the adjusting of the grind for drip or French Press — and every so often I’ll pop in a cardamom pod into the grinder if I think those flavors will mesh well. I did so this morning with nearly the last of the dark roast (which means I’ll be picking up some more at the Farmers Market today).
I started drinking coffee my junior year of college. I was purely tea beforehand. (I still reach for both.) My alma mater was piloting a new major, Media Studies, from which I was the second to graduate (my friend Bill was the first). I was also an English minor, a work-study student in the Writing Center, and got the Dean to fund a critical culture zine, Mediahead.
Coffee helped my brain and I to start achieving more. I can’t say if all of a sudden there was a lot to do, or if coffee helped my mind and I snap into place and become more high-performing. There’s certainly a correlation.
After college, my coffee game was elevated even further, via my friend and roommate, Kirstin. She introduced me to the french press style of brewing. We would sip it super hot before dashing to catch the T into Boston, or pour some into our commuter mugs while reading a half-folded The New Yorker. Her homemade ceramic coffeemugs would sit half empty in the sink all day. If there was anything left in the press, maybe it got warmed in the microwave the next morning.
In my late 30s and well into my 40s, I could finish an entire 8-cup press myself in one sitting. These days I sip slower (though no less fervently), and I do own two 8-cup presses in case company wants.