Cinnamon Coffee on the Coast
The taste of cinnamon and coffee have been on my tongue all morning. I can’t shake the craving. I can’t shake the taste. Was it the coconut milk powder that left this taste on my tongue? Or is it because my lips are dry from sleeping outside overnight? Part of me wants to linger with this craving, part of me wants it to disappear. It reminds me of a time when my path in life was much more clear.
It reminds me of early December. My hair pulled back with a bun and headband thick enough to be considered a “hat” per the health department. It’s cold outside - according to the steady stream of guests coming to the window to buy apple cider and coffee. I spend most of these winter weekend shifts hovering over rotating pots of apple cider. Removing packets of mulling spices before emptying the pots into a canteen that will then spend an hour sitting by the window. This isn’t my favorite job on the farm, but I don’t mind. Like my previous roles on the farm, it aligns with the pace of the season. Now that it’s winter, I must be patient and slow.
The warm, moist air that lifts from the mulling cider soothes my skin. I would have forgotten how cold it was outside if it didn’t leave droplets on the window, drawing my attention to the crunching of winter boots outside on the graveled patio floor. My body and mind drift, pouring cold cider into a pot, adding a sachet, letting it simmer. Moving to the next pot, removing a sachet, pouring steaming liquid into a Cambro. The humidity lulls me, sedates me, as I sway back and forth in the comfort of the warm kitchen.
Late-morning, it’s time for a second brew. I neglect the cider momentarily to remove old grinds from a metal urn. We only sell coffee on the farm during Christmas tree season. It only seems like the right choice for guests who forced themselves out of bed to cut their very own Christmas tree. It’s been a particularly snowy winter so far. There have been mornings on my way to work when I did not recognize the roads. Heavy blankets of white snow weighing down branches, transforming trees into tunnels and canopies.
The steam from the metal urn gently wakes my sleepy eyes. The lullaby of sugary steam has now been lifted by a shock of caffeine to my pores. I rinse out the grinds, refill the urn with water, and dump a bag of “Christmas Coffee” grounds into the filter. A breeze of coffee gently rustles my nose, accompanied by cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. Suddenly I can hear the tunes of Christmas music that have been playing in the kitchen all morning. I can smell fresh cut pine, spruce, and fir out in the yard. My eyes call attention to the Santa hats bobbing toward the window as their owners purchase a sweet treat. For a few minutes, the coffee awakens my senses the same way Christmas does. A spark that keeps your spirit alive as your body's energy wanes into winter. I close the coffee urn and request it to brew. Like pulling a blanket over your face to avoid winter's bite, I slink back into the slumber provided by bathing spices in fermented apple juice.
I’m aware that sometimes the joy of many memories are just a fantasy- a fabrication. I’ve accidentally spent most of my conscious life in a fantasy world just to survive the real one. But the reality of this memory is unquestionable to me. Now that I’m older and wiser, I question for the first time if the joy I experienced was a fabrication.
And then I’m reminded where the craving came from. How my body was seeking then what it is seeking now. For the past several months my body has been begging me for rest. I entered this weekend with a plan to hike on the coast, when I was actually desperate for extra sleep. The North Pacific Jetstream did what she intended to do in May and delivered us with a steady stream of rain. Instead of hiking, we spent the whole weekend in our tents. I was grateful to be forced into rest.
On those winter weekends on the farm, my body and mind followed the natural laws of the season. Slowly creeping into a lovely slumber. The joy I received from mundane activities wasn’t a fabrication - it was real. It was the one time in my life in which I escaped from the assembly line and lived with the seasons as my body was born to do. It blossomed in the Spring, ran wild in the Summer, resisted in the fall, and slept in the Winter.
Now my life goes against the seasons. My body fights with me, continues to scream at me to follow seasonal patterns. I wonder when I will be courageous enough again to live again amongst the seasons. To let parts of myself die while others grow
.