I'd like a House Blend, please. Grande. Black.

Yesterday I bought a coffee maker. Don't get me wrong, I love coffee in the morning, and Minerva always has a pot made when I get to work. But, I realized this morning it was much more than the caffeine buzz that wakes me up. It's the ritual of morning coffee: the smell when you take the lid off the can, the sound of the coffee maker as the water begins to be sucked from the holding tank and dripped over the grounds, and finally the smell as the freshly brewed coffee begins to waft through the room. Yet, there's still more senses to be awakened. I glance over at my coffee maker and begin to see the dark brew dripping into the pot. Anticipation kicks in and I move over to watch my first pot of coffee emerging, drip by beautiful drip, and realize I'm sitting on the floor in front of my little coffee maker almost praying that the perking will soon be completed.
Having no kitchen (or for that matter a table) to sit the coffee maker on, I unpacked my new coffee maker last night and turned the box on its side. I took the plastic bag it came in and laid it over the box to protect it from drips, so I can use the box again when I move to my own house. I set the coffee maker on the box, then neatly (because you know how fastidious I am) put the familiar blue can of Maxwell House on the left, the nicest mug I could find in my host mother's kitchen in front of the can and laid a spoon beside the mug.So, here I sit, legs crossed, waiting patiently for the silence as the last drips trickle into the pot. I realize the only thing missing is a candle, japa mala prayer beads or a round-bellied Buddhist god of Java. As I sit there and pour my inagural cup, once again I close my eyes and take in the aroma. I lift the cup and cradle it in both hands, recalling how often the cup would warm my hands on a winter morning. But that's not the case today, as I notice my crossed legs are now stuck together from the incessant heat which causes my skin to constantly feel like I'm covered in a thin layer of molasses. In my mind, I add that to the list of things I miss - the comfort of warming my hands until it drives a shiver from my cold body on a chilly morning. As I sit in front of my Java shrine and bring the cup to my lips, savoring the first sip of my very own coffee, my mind says a little prayer of thanks for a touch of sanity, a little bit of familiar, in this strange new world!