Sierra Kondos UP staff writer

Sierra Kondos
UP staff writer

For as far back as I can remember, coffee has been a main staple in our household. When my mother would write out the grocery list, the magic bean was listed in the top five with bread, butter, sugar and tea. During my childhood, “Wake up and smell the coffee,” was taken in the literal sense, the strong aroma in the air meant it was time to rise with the day.

I always thought that the way someone drank coffee said a lot about a person. My mother would take her coffee with milk and sugar, and go about to work with a pep in her step— clearly the side effects of combined sugar and caffeine after bustling all five of her children to the school bus.

My father took his coffee strong and black. I think it matched his personality quite well. He clearly did not have a pep in his step, and no one dared to bother him before noon. As an adult now, I relate to him more than I thought I would.

My first memory of beginning my day with coffee was when I was living with my brother, Zacheria. I woke up to the smell of sizzling bacon and got out of bed. When I went into the kitchen, my brother’s back was turned to me while he was flipping the thin slices on the stove, and somehow, he heard my footsteps in the carpet and said, “Breakfast is almost ready, but I didn’t make the coffee.” And quietly, I just walked over to the counter and began making coffee for us both. Somehow it became my job. It became important in our family. Over breakfast, we would sit down with our plates of bacon and mugs of coffee and quietly watch the news, just sitting in each other’s company until caffeine worked its magic.

For the next couple of years, I would dilute the taste of coffee with loads of sugar and creamers. I was not partial to the taste of coffee at all.

Once I began college at Lamar University as a full-time student, taking on a full-time job, raising my son, living on my own and paying all my bills, I realized that I was exhausted. My taste for sweet coffee became less important and my tolerance level went up by four cups. It also became a part of who I am, and it didn’t just stop with me. I spread the addiction to my sisters, or so I like to believe.

Now that we are in our mid to late 20s, coffee talks have become a morning tradition. For almost a year, I had all my three sisters living right next to me. Every morning I would hear a pounding on my window or door and have three evil incarnate individuals glaring at me from the other side of the glass. Reluctantly, I would open the door and allow the Sanderson sisters into my home and flock down upon my coffee corner like it was a shrine.

We all have different personalities, and the shades of the coffee we share attest to our differences.

I am the world’s biggest procrastinator and stress keeps me awake at night, so I take my coffee with just a splash of Pumpkin Spice cream — the darker the better.

My twin, Carolyn, adds two spoons of sugar and vanilla creamer into her cup. She only likes her one cup of coffee to do the trick-of-tricks — Hocus Pocus I need my coffee to focus.

My little sister, Krystina, creates her coffee with cream and sugar. She is the reason we have to brew multiple pots.

Our baby sister, Holly, is new to coffee talks and takes her coffee with mostly sugar and milk — her taste for coffee is at a minimum level.   

My sisters and I sip lightly on our mugs as we talk about family matters, television shows, religion or work. On rare occasions, we might even talk about a new man that we are seeing, pass around his photo and make explicit comments that’s just for laughs among sisters. This is by far the happiest I am in my life. The closeness that we share is bonding over coffee.

The phrase, “Lets meet up for coffee,” is now known by all who know us as a serious invitation that, “We need coffee now,” and that we request your company. And paying for the company of a friend who is willing and fully committed to binge-drinking coffee, and talking about anything and everything is worth the money.

For my family, “The best part of waking up…” is literally in our cups.

Story by Sierra Kondos, UP staff writer

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