“Bittersweet Grounds”
A Coffee Story By Ron Grubb
Every morning, before the sun had the courage to rise, Marlene stood in her kitchen wrapped in a faded robe, staring at the blinking green light of her old coffee maker. It was the only appliance in the house that hadn’t betrayed her. The fridge wheezed like it had asthma, the dishwasher hadn’t washed a thing in months, and the microwave door hung slightly ajar like a crooked smile. But the coffee maker—her loyal sentinel—still brewed with purpose.
The first cup of the day awaits her. The cup, a gift from her father brings back fond memories of days gone by. The steam curled upward like a memory, and the scent—dark, earthy, wrapped around her like an old friend. She closed her eyes and inhaled. For a moment, the bills on the counter blurred, the silence from the bedroom softened.
Coffee had always been her ritual. In college, it was the fuel for late-night cramming and early-morning ambition. When she met Tom, her husband, they used to linger over mugs on Sunday mornings, legs tangled under the table dreaming of their future together.
Now, the porch was cluttered with unopened Amazon boxes Tom barely spoke unless it was about the thermostat or the car payment.
At work, Marlene sat under fluorescent lights that buzzed like gnats. The coffee maker is the brewer of a witch’s brew pretending to be coffee. Her cubicle was a beige coffin, and her manager—a man who used phrases like “circle back” and “synergy”—had the emotional range of a stapler. She typed reports no one read, attended meetings that felt like slow drownings, and counted the hours until she could go home and make another cup.
But coffee—coffee was her rebellion. Her escape. She’d splurge on beans from Guatemala when she could, grind them herself, and pretend she was somewhere else. Somewhere warm, with jazz playing and laughter echoing off tiled walls. She’d sip slowly, letting the bitterness remind her she was still alive.
One evening, after a particularly brutal fight with Tom about the electric bill, Marlene sat on the porch alone, a fresh cup in hand. The sky was bruised purple. She took a sip and remembered the first time she’d tasted coffee—really tasted it—at her grandmother’s kitchen table. She was twelve, and it had felt like being let in on a secret.
She smiled, just barely.
The bills would still come. The job would still drain. The marriage might not survive. But the coffee—its warmth, its scent, its stubborn presence—reminded her that some things endure. Some rituals remain. And sometimes, a cup is more than a drink. It’s a lifeline.
She took another sip.
Tomorrow would come. But tonight, she had this.
About the Author
Brewed in the heart of the Midwest and steeped in curiosity, Ron is the creative force behind Crickets Coffee Blog. Exploring the coffee world looking for that perfect holiday recipe that makes your holiday party perfect.
Ron not only finds that recipe you have been looking for.
It’s the news on how climate change can impact your coffee in the future.
Secret ways to use those used coffee grounds and more.
Crickets Coffee Blog has been blogging on the subject of coffee for nearly 10 years now. Stop by have a look.
