I am thinking about when and where I had the best cup of coffee in my entire life. There might be a significant person that is part of the experience, too. My father introduced me to coffee when I was thirteen at breakfast. It was instant Nescafe from a jar. Today I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking instant coffee. I suppose he thought I was mature, although my school chums couldn’t believe my own father allowed that vice. They said that as a result coffee stunted my growth to a lowly five feet three. As I recollect, their scare tactics didn’t frighten me. I’ve had outstanding espressos around the world in chic bars served by baristas and surrounded by elegant people. An hourly worker on a plantation in Costa Rica ground fresh beans from a burlap bag on the warehouse floor for a delicious brew that I made last until the final drop came to my lips. Sharing a moment with dad over a cup of coffee at the kitchen table before rushing off to eighth grade makes the most lasting impression, though.