Influenza Aftermath

That's me in the photo, enjoying my morning coffee. Still in my flannel jammies and taking in the view of my South Dakota backyard through the patio door. I love coffee. I've loved it since I was seven when my Norwegian grandmother, Esther, would serve me up a cup of the thinnest coffee imaginable if I happened to be sitting with the other grownup ladies when cake was served at a family gathering. If there was ice cream with the cake, I would stir a spoonful of it into my coffee, essentially an equivalent to doctoring it with cream and sugar. As an adult, even though I enjoy the occasional iced coffee or a seasonal pumpkin spiced latté, I take my coffee black. Hot, black, strong, unlike the coffee of my childhood that you could likely read the newspaper through. For the last five or so years, my favorite has been whole bean, burr-ground Island Blend from World Market, drip brewed to perfection. A predictable, daily dose of joy. But my recent bout of flu has seemingly rewired the coffee pleasure center of my brain. To my great disappointment, coffee is tasting like mud and the usual tantalizing, rich aroma is undetectable. Leaving me with staving off the dreaded caffeine withdrawal headache with a cup of English Breakfast. Which is tasty, and really okay, it's just not coffee. I haven't experienced coffee aversion since I was pregnant with Reid, and he's going on twenty-six. That was promptly remedied by giving birth. And for a number of reasons, barring some kind of miracle, it's highly unlikely that I currently have a bun in the oven. I am clueless as to how to remedy my café-free existence. Think of me while you're enjoying yours. Thanks, ever so much.