Working on about 4 1/2 hours of sleep, feet dragging, brain slow and slower and s-l-o-w-e-r.
Showed up this morning at my favorite local coffee shop, J.C. Beans in Dana Point. Approach the counter, young woman with dyed blonde hair and a pierced nose says, “What would you like?”
“I’ll have the vanilla roast.”
I know, mug isn’t a size. It’s a thing. But it’s a beautiful thing, and should be a size. And shape. And state of being. People who go to coffee shops, then drink from paper or plastic, are missing a huge part of the joyful coffee shop experience. You can be enjoying a coffee, a tea, a hot chocolate—but if you’re not drinking from a mug, you’re making an enormous mistake.
Mugs are warm. Mugs are hearty. Mugs have weight to them—physically and socially. To hold a mug in one’s hand is to say, “Have a seat. Relax. Stay a while.” Some mugs have words. Some mugs have pictures. Many mugs tell stories. Places, people, moments. The mug I’m using right now (pictured above) features a lovely etching of the J.C. Beans exterior. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but it’s cool and cozy.
I’m not sure when mugs stopped being a big thing in America, but I’m presuming (and assuming) it coincides with the rise of Starbucks and the chain’s devotion to wasting as many resources as humanly possible. Or, put different, all their products come in disposable cups.
Well, that ain’t for me.
I’ll all mug.