Confession: I drink cold coffee. Not the expensive hipster cold-pressed stuff, either—that isn’t confession-worthy. No, I make my own pourover in the morning and forget about it after a few sips and get back to it hours later, after the cream in it has languished for half the day. It tastes just as good to me that way. No, it tastes better, because I thought I’d drinken it all, but suddenly there’s more. Is there something wrong with me for liking this? Wait, don’t answer. Every time one of my witch friends tells me some great truth about myself, I recoil in horror and wind up rebuilding my self-esteem with a new set of lies.
Also, I prefer my coffee with a generous amount of cream or half-and-half, and it must remain cloudy, never stirred. Why does that make a difference, not stirring it, and why does it taste better that way? Don’t look to me for the answer, I’m just confessing.
Here is one of my favorite bits of forbidden trivia: In old-school prison lingo, a coffee with cream and sugar was known as a Cadillac. If I ever own any type of eating establishment, Cadillacs will be on the menu. But also, I will need to invent a name for a coffee with cream only—an Oldsmobile?—and names for stirred and unstirred options—stick and standard?
Apparently I am a budding social anarchist, or so I’m told, even though I mostly vote Democrat. To wit: I spend a lot of time daydreaming about my project cafe, of which there are two versions. The “town” version is a free cafe for kids 18 and under—a phone-free neutral zone. Its offerings are very simple, possibly relegated to a Mr. Coffee and donated books. Maybe it hosts a Penny University and game nights, to get young minds engaged. For some reason I imagine opening it in downtown Willits. There is logic there that I don’t have space for right now. Now the whole world knows.
The secret-hippie-village version of my dream cafe is a shed in a meadow with folding bunks against one wall, self-serve coffee, a couch, wifi and a covered porch with a projection screen for film nights. Or maybe it’s in a treehouse in a Redwood forest. It’s there for people in the know. It’s not free, per se, but rather operates on a “suggested donation” basis, because the thought of selling things out of a cafe that doesn’t officially exist gives me giddy goosebumps.
Do I have more to say? Hmmm, not sure. I’m out of space, yet I feel cleansed.
These are my secrets. Shhhhh … please don’t tell.
