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.