In praise of coffee
Coffee might be one of the more contentious mundane items in our everyday life. Everyone has an opinion on coffee. Some love their Starbucks, others swear by Dunkins. Some spend thousands just to get the perfect espresso. So, when I tell people that my favorite coffee has almost always came from gas stations, I get a lot of weird looks.
Full clarity, one gas station I go to has a Dippin’ Donuts, which is probably one of the best coffee experiences I’ve ever had. Smooth hazelnut notes in what I think is a medium roast pairs great with an early morning of whatever I do. Over the summer, I went bass fishing with a friend. Those days in my head I have the smell and taste of coffee and apple fritters nailed into them. When I remember those days, I remember the tastes just as much as the fish we caught, maybe even more.
Cold mornings fishing the Quabbin with my dad were accented by the taste of drip coffee. We would set up the machine the night before, and as we headed out in the morning, into the cold foggy dawn, the warm coffee kept our core and hands warm. He loads it up with creamer, however I usually take mine black, and that coffee isn’t exactly that tasty.
Gas station coffee is often just the same. It’s not usually noteworthy, and if it is, usually not in a positive way. There’s something about this unassuming cup of coffee, a certain quality, that I just can’t put into words.
The first time taking my friend to a local tailwater, we had stopped at a small Cumberland Farms. We stepped out of my car, and into the faint light of dawn. A chill hit the back of our throats, and we stepped inside this unassuming gas station. I remember I got some knock off Chips Ahoy (which I later gave to my friend) and this caramel coffee. For whatever reason, every other Cumberland Farms around me doesn’t have this coffee, and I connect it heavily to that day specifically. Rigging our rods at the tailwater, we sipped this otherwise unnoteworthy coffee. I tied on a chubby Chernobyl I had tied in a size 16 and had given my friend one of my dry fly leaders.
It was a slow day, an unusually cold day in August. I had managed to put a good rainbow in the net, but nothing that was mind blowing. That day, however, felt perfect, and the fishing being a bit poorer didn’t matter.
