As a writer, I tend to suffer from frequent bouts of paralyzing self-doubt. I will write nothing good today. I may not write anything of any value ever again. I will go to my grave — hopelessly alone — with nothing to show for my modicum of natural writing ability but a urinal cake catalog and a few stale spec scripts. Ah, but then. I have one of these:
And suddenly, everything is going to be okay. In fact, I might just open a bakery. Or purchase a cheese-making concern in Vermont. Not only can I write, but my IQ seems to have doubled and my vocabulary is as vast, deep and accessible as the day I graduated from college. As for dying alone, no worries — I’ll move awesome pal Alison into my Vermont dairy-farm. We’ll share child care expenses and re-name it the House of Blonds and Babies.
All that hope, energy and initiative from just one little cup. It’s no wonder, then, that I must seek out SERIOUS coffee shops in every city I visit. San Francisco was no exception, and I fell truly, madly, deeply in love with Ritual Coffee Roasters in San Francisco’s gritty meets gentrified Mission District.
Their site gives you all kinda background on why they have a line out the door from the minute they open. But I think their logo (which indicates that they are coffee communists in the purest, most Marxian sense of the word) says it all. My mocha was creamy and rich — the happy marriage of cocoa and coffee without the unpleasant intrusion of too much sugar. My only quibble is that they need to make them hotter so I don’t drink them so fast! Guess I’ll just have to order a second one, but I’m afraid that would send my hyper-ometer to 11. (It already hovers somewhere around 10.)
So next time you’re feeling stupid, cozy up to a cuppa. And next time you’re in SF, make this your morning Ritual.