My grandpa always had a cup of coffee in his hand. Well, maybe not always- Poppy was also a fan of buttermilk, but I would argue he was the only person in the world who ever drank buttermilk by the glass. 

Growing up, I always associated coffee with my Poppy. No matter what time of day it was, Poppy would have a black coffee within his reach. When we went out to eat, he would order “coffee, black” to go with whatever he had ordered for his meal, no matter how sweet or savory.

I like to think I am similar to my Poppy in my coffee consumption habits, although I don’t drink it black and I certainly will not order it at a restaurant alongside non-breakfast meals (I made the mistake of once ordering a coffee alongside a burrito bowl- it was not a good combination). But every time I go to a diner and put regular cream and sugar in my regular coffee, I feel like a grandpa. 

Going to diners for breakfast happens to be one of my favorite hobbies. I try to go at least once a week, normally on Sundays. Every time I order a coffee, I feel a strong connection to my Poppy. I love fancy flavors and oat milk, but drinking a cheap cup of coffee with half and half and a packet of artificial sweetener (my grandma refers to them by their colors, so when we’re together, I will ask her to pass me a yellow) reminds me of my Poppy. 

I enjoy the diner coffee much more than getting a fancy coffee from my favorite local coffee shop. I would take a Sunday morning cup of coffee over spending $7.00 on an oat milk latte on any day, especially on those days when I miss my Poppy the most.

I may follow in his footsteps with the coffee, but if you ever find me drinking buttermilk, please call the local mental hospital.