An ode to the humble coffee bean, as seen at Mouse and de Lotz, courtesy of in-house artista/barista Jannie. Coffee certainly inspires plenty of adulation, debate and speculation. I have a love/hate relationship with it myself. I enjoy the taste, the experience, the culture of coffee. I appreciate the warmth, comfort and sense of community within places cropping up (such as my beloved Mouse) which are purveyors of high quality coffee and artfully prepared food. But I notice the effects of coffee in my body, with a sense of curiosity. How I become reliant and addicted to the peaks and troughs it creates in myself, in my day. And then, when there is an absence of it, the sense I have of somehow missing out. I’m amazed at the raft of scientific study which desperately tries to determine whether coffee is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ for you. A recent article helpfully suggests that ‘Women who drink four or more cups a day are less likely to be depressed.’ I suspect they’d be too busy bouncing off walls to be depressed. But this all seems beside the point. The question I’m in at present is how does coffee make me feel? What am I choosing, for myself, when I choose to have coffee? Who else is responsible for the decision I make, but me?
