I like my morning routines. Like opening the blinds and peering out to make sure the neighbourhood is still there and everything is all right. But my most important morning routine is loading up the coffee maker and waiting for it to gurgle through and give me my first morning cup of coffee.
In my coffee mug.
Somehow it’s not the same if it’s from just any coffee mug. I’m happy sharing a cup, or sipping one solitarily, from just about anything, The cap from a thermos, a paper Tim Hortons cup, an old melmac mug from the back corner of someone’s cupboard. But if I’m at home, I want to use mymug.
There’s nothing extraordinary about my coffee mug, It doesn’t call attention to itself – it’s rather nicely bland. But it sits in my hand right when I’m warming them on a cold morning. Holds a decent amount of coffee. Doesn’t tip over.
I’m not overly attached to it. I’ve had a number of them over the years. Different types, styles, and sizes. Lost them in a number of ways: crashed on the floor, chipped on the edge of the sink, tumbled to the pavement getting out of the car. No sense of tragedy, no mourning. Just the beginning of a search for the next “right” mug. One that fits my updated personality. I always find one, eventually.
I’ve come to realize that I’m not alone. We’ve assembled quite a motley collection of mugs in our kitchen cupboard. Whenever our more regular visitors drop over and it’s coffee or tea time, there’s a distinct ceramic clattering that goes on as everyone searches for their mug in the cupboard. (“Hey! Where’s my teddy bear mug?”) They all eventually get matched up with their own familiars.
Then the visiting can begin. Steaming beverages, usual chairs (“That’s where I sit.”), catching up on life. It all seems to work better when everyone and everything is well-acquainted.
I like routines.