Thursday, August 4, 2011
This image was taken on Market Street and shows the rear outside dining area of a recently opened restaurant. Before it changed hands, it used to be one of my favorite coffee hangouts, especially during the winter months. The sound of the coffee maker perking away downstairs in the kitchen was always a welcoming sign each morning. Mom usually had a cup in hand, as she attempted to get us youngins fed and off to school. I enjoyed the aroma, hated the taste. I actually can trace my first cup back to the kitchen table at my friend Tom's house, somewhere around junior year of high school. As I remember, it was freezed-dried with artificial creamer and bitter to the taste. My other pals around the table were seasoned vets in the java world, but there I sipped my virginal cup. Today, I take mine perked, mild, black and in multiple versions. I've come a ways from that tan formica kitchen table and that first cup of Sanka. Sometimes we move in straight shots, sometimes winding paths.