I am very choosy about the coffee I drink. For me, it is not a ritual offering brewed with a self-setting timer to help me rise from my bed with a clichéd smile on my face. My son once advised that I should see my children off at the bus stop with a mug of coffee in my hand “like the other mothers.” To my son, coffee is not something that grown-ups drink, but rather something they do.
Actually, he was quite astute in his observation. How often do busy adults hear from colleagues or friends, “Let’s do lunch,” “Let’s do eighteen holes of golf,” and of course, “Let’s do coffee”? Coffee, or any other type of drink or activity for that matter, is a metaphor for community and the innate human need to connect. When I feel the need to shelf my solitary cup of tea for a steaming cup of Joe, I head to the coffee shops that are low on posh and high on mom and pop charm. Of course, the brew has to be palatable as well.
At summer’s end, my family spent a relaxing weekend at my parent’s home on Crooked Lake in Indiana. Aside from water skiers and bass fisherman, not much happens at the Lake. Families of ducks who wade among the lily pads, and the occasional battle between two overly aggressive male swans comprise most of the action in this stretch of Indiana. That is fine with our family. The lemonade is cold, the wine is smooth, and the coffee is always hot.
On Saturday morning, my mother suggested that she, my daughter, and I share some quality girl time, country style. For her, that meant a visit to the local deli for homemade cinnamon rolls. My mother remarked that Sutton’s Deli was awarded four stars by The Fort Wayne Observer for its coffee. I had to chuckle because I was not expecting a latte served by a European barrista, but rather a few sips of Folgers in my cup. Rightfully admonished, after my first sip of hazelnut, I had to agree with the food critic, Sutton’s did have great coffee, even it was served in styrofoam.
More than the coffee, Sutton’s offered a comforting sense of community. My mom’s lady friends sat at one table relishing a lazy Saturday morning and a bit of gossip. Farmers and their sons arrived for hearty omelets. Local college students sat at tables pouring over course offerings, nourished by the simple goodness of eggs and cinnamon rolls.
As we left Sutton’s and wandered in and out of stores that sprinkled the town’s center, my mom and I noticed that there was a decided change in the air. Even though the morning ushered in another humid late summer’s day, a few leaves had begun to shine yellow and blaze red. The brightness of the sun appeared filtered through the trees still lush with summer leaves. The town’s shops advertised harvest specials and autumn fairs. For a moment, I wished that our autumn wasn’t so busy with sports and Irish dance. I wished that we could fall in time with the slower pace of a small town and simple Saturday rituals of cinnamon rolls and coffee at Sutton’s.
Town speaks to each of us in a different way. In Ireland, my husband is easily drawn to town with a wink from the Uncle and the promise of good craic in their favorite pub. Foamy and smooth, Guinness is drawn in ritual fashion. A proper pour begins with a room temperature glass tilted under the tap at a 45 degree angle. One should only pour the pint three-fourths full and then allow the glass to rest. After a minute or so, the bartender should top the creamy head so the foam begins to flow down the sides. The Guinness can now be served. The artistic bartender may stamp a final shamrock or his initial atop the pour. Regardless, if proper form is not followed, the draught is ruined. I am told that certain pubs draw better Guinness than others. Aside from the ritual of Guinness, it is moreover the lively conversation and quality folk that draw regulars into town and their familiar pub.
For my daughter, a visit to town with the Irish aunt means a pound in her pocket and an ice cream with chocolate Flake in her hand. She loves the fact that everyone in town knows one another and that she herself is a bit of a novelty. When the Aunt introduces her to friends and neighbors, they always give her a warm welcome and inquire as to how she is enjoying her holiday. With vanilla ice cream streaming down her face and a bag of sweets in hand, she replies, “What’s not to like?”
One afternoon during our last family trip to Ireland, the American soccer team was playing against Algeria during a World Cup game. Our families gathered to watch the excitement in the lounge at the town’s only hotel. The children devoured baskets of sausages and chips.
Whether owing to the World Cup or the fine weather that particular summer, legions of Americans were in town that day. I escaped the cheering crowd for a bit of peace, reflection, and a cup of the town’s best instant coffee. Kelly’s Kitchen is a cozy little spot that offers lovely breakfasts and lunches made with local ingredients. The tea is delicious and the coffee is, well, hot. On that day, the coffee was something I did, rather than drank.
I sat at a solitary table penning my thoughts and observations in a journal while around me tourists made plans for the day. Some were heading to Croagh Patrick and others were looking for accommodations for the night. There was a buzz of relaxed energy in the restaurant that day.
Outside the window, the townsfolk lacked any sense of urgency. Neighbors caught up with one another for a visit. A sheep dog walked unleashed, secure against the leg of its master. Across the street, beautiful trails of red roses climbed up the side of an old stone building, while the town’s shoe seller placed a new selection of Wellington’s on the narrow sidewalk for sale.
As I finished the last drop of coffee cooling in my cup, I thought of the last rose of summer. Soon fall would be here and we would again be caught up in the harried pace of family life. But for now, there was no need to rush. The soccer match was over. A chorus of cheers from the hotel told me that America had won. On that day, town was alive with the young and old, the villagers and the visitors, all enjoying the sense of community only a small town can offer.
Susan holds a Master’s Degree in English from John Carroll University and a Master’s Degree in Education from Baldwin-Wallace College. She may be reached at
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