Adding Cinnamon to Coffee
Savoring the Beauty of Simple Things
A few mornings ago, as I made my pour over coffee, I was struck by the realization that almost everything we do each day has been influenced by the people we’ve encountered in our lives. Perhaps their presence in our lives has faded into the past, but the threads of connectedness linger in the choices we make in the present.
Perhaps I am more impressionable than some, but if I pause for just a moment, everything around me begins to tell a story of people I’ve encountered. Without taking more than a few steps in my kitchen, the objects there beckon me to ponder the network of people and experiences that have shaped my current life.
I add cinnamon to my coffee each morning because my coworker did this during my first week at a job and since then I’ve done it almost every day for the last five years. A few nights ago, a college friend and I were at a brewery, and she commented that I should try a cinnamon coffee stout since she knows I add cinnamon to my coffee each morning. Though the stout wasn’t as good as hoped, the moment reminded me of that first experience as a young college graduate, starting my first job and adding cinnamon to my coffee for the first time.
I open my fridge and check on the cold brew I’m making in my french press. Back in college a few students would bring an entire french press and a mug into classes with them. As a freshman, this impressed me as being both over the top and yet genius. Their coffee habit is really the only reason I asked for a french press for Christmas that year. I don’t think I ever got up the nerve to use it in class, but the influence and memory remain etched into my mind.
Opening my cupboard reveals a collection of mugs, one gifted to me by a coworker, another from a friend who’s wedding I was in, a few I won at a white elephant party held at my close friend’s house and another that an old roommate gave me to replace one a guest had broken.
Turning to my sink, I begin to wash my water bottle, using a brush I decided to purchase for myself after a different roommate moved out and took the brush that I’d gotten used to using. At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt about the brush, being more of a sponge person, but after using hers for so long, it became my go to brush, and I had to get one of my own.
The water bottle I’m washing also has a story to tell. The particular style and brand were listed on a packing list that an adventuresome friend shared with me as we prepared to go on a backpacking trip last year. Though the backpacking trip evolved into a less intense camping and hiking trip, I still purchased the water bottle. It came in handy on the camping trip, where we ended up having quite the adventure while sleeping on an island in below freezing temperatures.
Another object from that island adventure that I use almost daily is an orange insulated knock off Yeti cup that we drank spiked cider in as we tried to stay warm. I’d forgotten to bring a cup for coffee and so I bought it from a small outfitter shop on the island. Today I use it to take oatmeal to work on days when I don’t have time for a fancier breakfast.
These are but a handful of simple items that remind me of those who have contributed to my life over the years. If I expand my consideration outside of my kitchen and consider the books I own, the music I listen to, the habits I’ve formed, and the overall shape of my life, I hear innumerable echos of the people who have woven in and out of my life.
Each morning, the simplest tasks I complete as I get ready for work are colored by those I’ve encountered in my past. Some of these people I currently see regularly, some infrequently, some perhaps never again. Yet, my daily actions are not arbitrary, or undertaken in isolation. Though much in today’s world is standardized, depersonalized and mass-produced, everyday objects continue to convey meaning for those who pause to listen.
Dostoevsky writes that “we are each responsible to all for all.”1 In a culture defined by autonomy, subjectivity and selfishness, the cinnamon in my coffee reminds me that we are all connected. The decisions we make, even those as mundane as taking a french press to class, ripple out into the community around us, changing other people’s lives forever. Pay attention to how you make your coffee, notice who is watching, and slowly savor the beauty of simple things.
Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov