Both of my grandmothers were German Americans. One, my maternal grandmother, was from Georgia, and the other, my paternal grandmother, was from New Orleans, Louisiana. Both had a love of coffee. Both served coffee to me as long as I can remember, perhaps as long as I could seat myself at the table. Coffee is an earliest memory for me. It is an earliest ‘food memory’ for me. It is rich and something like bitter chocolate. I confess I like it strong, and dark and toasty, almost burned, but not quite. My mother’s mother put in a heaping spoon of sugar, filled the cup halfway with coffee and halfway with cream. It was the palest color and deeply sweet. Sometimes I drink coffee this way to remember. My father’s mother brewed coffee in an old enameled brew pot with chicory root on the stove top. I still have her coffee pot. Her coffee was dark and thick, but smooth, and served in little cups, demi-tasse cups, with a sludge on the bottom, like a Turkish coffee. It was served simply. She drank tiny cup after tiny cup, until it was a few pots per day. A coffee with chicory reminds me.
Coffee Reminds Me
Vegetexican In Austin 
There was a Maxwell House plant in downtown Jacksonville where I grew up. My earliest memories as a kid, when we drove through the downtown area, were of roasting coffee in the air. I loved that smell. I also remember many Maxwell House and Folgers coffee tins all around my grandmother’s home, stashed with all sorts of cookies, candies, and other homemade treats. When I visit my grandmother, our first steps always involve sitting down to a cup of coffee at her dining table with coffee tins full of treats.
Love this post, Shannon!
Thank you Julie. I’d made a sweet cup of coffee, rather on accident, with cream, and was feeling sentimental. 🙂