Is coffee an addiction?

Yes, it is.

Am I addicted?

Yes I am.

It started back in the days of summer camp. I was a young, fresh-faced counselor who enjoying staying up most of the night, a hand of euchre clutched in my sweaty fist. Coffee was the magically liquid that revived me the following morning as I sat comatose with over-excited 7-year-olds. Black Joe became a morning ritual, like showering or not making my bed.

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The Stevo Emergency Coffee Contraption (Pat. Pending)

Finding real coffee in China is difficult. Well, not that difficult, you can buy coffee at Wal-Mart, but that involves a bus ride. Add to that my cheapness and understanding why I drink instant coffee is easy.

This morning I found myself with an empty bottle of instant coffee. I debated donning my shorts and heading to the 24-hour convenience store that stocks the mythical crystals. Being the laziest man in Shenzhen I dismissed this idea. On the kitchen counter was a Ziploc bag of real Blue Mountain coffee, a gift (or bribe) from a co-worker that had committed a minor transgression.

I had no coffee filters, or a coffee maker to place them in. My French press had been  discarded months before due to aggressive mould growth caused by lackluster cleaning skills. I was at a loss.

But necessity is the mother of invention. I had a wire basket strainer and toilet paper (bog roll, my Kiwi friend calls it). In fact I have 15 rolls of toilet paper in my apartment. My wife purchased 24 rolls the last time we ran out. Why two people in a very small apartment need to stockpile toilet paper is a mystery to me.

But I digress.

The plan was just crazy enough to work. Or fail with aplomb. I didn’t care; thoughts of Blue Mountain goodness had invaded my thoughts like some nations invade others for oil.

I lined the basket with a generous amount of toilet paper. Once placed over a pot I slowly poured hot water over the grounds. My body shook with anticipation, and withdrawal.

The liquid went into a large white mug. It was brown, the right color, although I would have seriously considered drinking something pink or green if I had the correct aroma. I sampled.

It was coffee-like. Not nearly strong enough, but good enough to do the job. I just needed four cups instead of my ritual two.

Desperate times (and laziness) call for desperate measures. As this tale passes into legend I think the coffee-starved of the world will see me for the visionary I was/am.