John B. Marek

Considering this column is published in a coffee house newsletter, it is perhaps a little strange that I have never written about coffee. The truth is, I’ve never felt like I had anything clever or interesting to say on the topic, until today.   My personal history with coffee goes back a long, long way. My father started nearly every day of his adult life by brewing a pot so strong it could loosen the lug nuts on a ’57 Chevy, pouring himself a cup, and adding a generous portion of cream and sugar. On workdays, he would fill a large thermos with that concoction to take with him, and on the weekends he would sometimes prepare a small cup of it for me.   Despite my early start, I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker through college. A cup here and there in support of an all-nighter, or a cup with the rare breakfast “out” at a Waffle House of Cracker Barrel. In those days, I drank it like my father, with lots of cream and sugar.   I came into my own as a coffee drinker when I started working a