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I don't have a super great memory before the age of eight, but I can remember begging for coffee beans from my dad since I was much younger than that. I didn't really like the taste at all; I was probably trying to emulate my older sister. I just knew since I was a pudgy cheeked babe (which I still am, actually. Thanks, Genetics.) that I was supposed to like them.

We never had a drip pot in the house - my dad brewed his own espresso on the stove. It was a special chore to pull a chair up to the high cupboard above the fridge (funny, I do the same thing now to access my alcohol stash. Which is small, Dad, I promise!), carefully take down the mason jar of coffee beans and grinder, and prep the espresso. He taught us how to measure out the beans with a tablespoon, grind it just right, pour it carefully into the stainless filter, and wipe the edges of the espresso pot before putting it on the stove. That familiar bubbling of the espresso is one of the fixed sounds of my childhood, along the clank of the back gate and the uniquely patterned creak of the stairs when my mom or dad headed up to read us to sleep.

I remember going to Broadway Coffee, the long gone specialty coffee (and tabacco?) store with my dad and trying orange flavored chocolates, which I hate to this day. Fruit should be fruit and chocolate should be dark chocolate. I remember a wall of jars, strong smells, and knowing even then that coffee was something entrancing.

Officially, I think that makes me a coffee girl long before it was cool. Long before it was one of the three big Portland industries (the other two being micro-brews and beard growing).

Naturally, I do a lot of my reading and thinking and crossword puzzles on my lunch hour at a coffee shop. And lately, my fickle coffee shop heart has been with Coava Coffee. Those guys rock. They know my name. They changed my usual order by forcing a taste test. They give me free coffee sometimes. They don't rush anything. They're super chill. They stamp all their bag logos by hand. They roast beans right in front of me. They're blocks from my office. And for those reasons, I'll forgive them for not having normal size chairs and tables yet, and the gash on my knee from the poor stool-to-table-made-from-old-machinery-and-bamboo ratio.

A lot of my recent revelations have been due to some fantastic writers, mentors, and friends. And a lot of them have happened at 1300 SE Grand Avenue while sipping an El Limon or Kieni pour over.

Coffee is a constant in my past and my growing up.