The question hangs in the steam curling from an earthenware mug, a quiet invitation to share something intimate. I’ve answered it differently over the years, each iteration a marker of time, place, and mood.
At twenty, I took it milky and sweet, a layer of froth floating like a cloud on a sea of caramel. Back then, coffee was a prop for late-night study sessions in dorm rooms, where the hum of a keurig and the clink of sugar packets underscored debates about literature and philosophy. It was a drink to be hurried, sipped between paragraphs and page turns, the sugar rush masking the bitterness of uncertainty—about grades, about futures, about whether the boy down the hall would ever notice me. We drank it in chipped mugs, passing them around like secrets, the caffeine sharpening our laughter into something bright and brittle.
By my thirties, the sweetness faded. I started ordering lattes, but only with a single pump of vanilla, the milk steamed just enough to take the edge off. These were mornings in offices with floor-to-ceiling windows, where coffee was a ritual of transition—from the chaos of waking to the relentlessness of deadlines. I carried it in a stainless steel tumbler, its surface warm against my palm as I rushed through subway turnstiles. Some days, I’dlinger at the café counter, watching the barista pour microfoam into a heart shape, a small act of beauty in a day otherwise filled with spreadsheets and conference calls. The coffee wasn’t just fuel; it was a pause, a breath, a quiet rebellion against the noise.
Now, I take it black. Not out of some sudden affinity for bitterness, but because life has trained my palate to appreciate the complexity beneath it. I brew it slowly in a French press, the grinds swirling like dark sediment, the aroma filling the kitchen before the sun rises. It’s the first thing I do each morning—grind the beans, heat the water, wait. No sugar, no milk, just the pure, unadulterated taste: earthy, slightly nutty, with a hint of smoke that lingers on the tongue. I drink it while sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the silence, watching the light seep through the窗帘 (chuānglián, curtains). It’s not about rushing anymore. It’s about savoring the moment—the way the steam fogs my glasses, the weight of the mug in my hands, the quiet certainty that comes with knowing some things get better with time, even if they don’t get sweeter.
So how do I like my coffee? These days, I like it like I like my mornings—slow, uncomplicated, and full of the quiet promise of what’s to come. It’s not just a drink. It’s a reflection: of who I was, who I am, and who I’m still learning to be.