Morning Brew Quotes

Somewhere deeper in the city a motor is running, a distant, earthy growl, like an animal panting. in a few hours the bright blush of morning will push through all that darkness, and shapes will reassert themselves, and people will wake up and yawn and brew coffee and get ready for work, everything the same as usual. Life will go on. Something aches at the very core of me, something ancient and deep and stronger than words: the filament that joins each of us to the root of existence, that ancient thing unfurling and resisting and grappling, desperately for a foothold, a way to stay here, breathe, keep going.

If you want your customers to start eating spinach flavored ice cream, your idea won’t need as much cultural change as it will if you want your customers to start taking a coffee pill in the morning instead of fresh brewed coffee. Obviously, the latter will require more efforts and more marketing.

And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.

In the morning, the woman who made you ill with fear brews a pot of coffee and jokes with you and kisses you and sweetly scratches your scalp like nothing has happened. And, as though you’d slept, a new day begins again.

Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and autumn. We drink what somebody brewed, neither I nor you nor a third: we lap up some empty and last thing. We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirrors and faster pass food to the other: the night is the night, it begins with the morning, beside you it lays me down. ("The Years From You To Me")

I now have memories attached to it, to help fill it up. Of my dad’s soft chuckle carrying through the perpetual silence, of the smell of his fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, of the sound of the floors creaking as he pads down the hallway after saying good night to me. Such little things—tiny, trivial slivers of his life that shouldn’t count as memories

Coffee is a lot like people. In many ways, it’s deceiving. The sweetness that you smell as it brews is more often than not a fallacy. The scent of a dark roasted coffee bean promises you rich flavors with hints of chocolate and hazelnut, but if you’re not used to coffee’s deceptiveness, you’re left with a bitter aftertaste dangling at the back of your throat. To those of us who are used to it- we’ve grown a fondness for that bitter taste. It’s complex. It’s teasing. It reminds us that most things in life are not consistently sweet with every sip. One morning, your coffee might brew mild with just a flirtation of nutty undertones, And the next morning, it might be pelting you in the face with those same nuts, leaving little stinging marks with each sip. It’s moody. It’s not easy to perfect. But when you get the perfect brew, it’s rewarding. And that same perfection is not guaranteed tomorrow just because you managed it today.

As I write this, it is nine o’clock in the morning. In the two hours since I got out of bed I have showered in water heated by North Sea gas, shaved using an American razor running on electricity made from British coal, eaten a slice of bread made from French wheat, spread with New Zealand butter and Spanish marmalade, then brewed a cup of tea using leaves grown in Sri Lanka, dressed myself in clothes of Indian cotton and Australian wool, with shoes of Chinese leather and Malaysian rubber, and read a newspaper made from Finnish wood pulp and Chinese ink.

I wriggle slowly out of the snug little cubby of blankets. Taking a shower. Letting the cool morning breeze that blows through the open windows gently caress my naked flesh. I savor the mild sun. For a while, i luxuriate in the feel of the soft towel against my skin and then, the breeze picks up and feels like a thousand miniature tongues licking the beads of water from my body. Today, no expectations. Lots of time for stretching and waking up slowly. The smell of fresh brewed coffee tickles my nose. Mornings like these make life so delicious – Nice!

I have one cup of coffee every morning just to start the day off right. The other ones are to keep me out of jail, help me form sentences, and fuel my razor sharp wit.” ~N. Hoffman

Some of the world's most effective thoughts happen over a brew of morning's coffee

Hazel squinted. “How far?” “Just over the river and through the woods.” Percy raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? To Grandmother’s house we go?” Frank cleared his throat. “Yeah, anyway.” Hazel clasped her hands in prayer. “Frank, please tell me she’ll let us spend the night. I know we’re on a deadline, but we’ve got to rest, right? And Arion saved us some time. Maybe we could get an actual cooked meal?” “And a hot shower?” Percy pleaded. “And a bed with, like, sheets and a pillow?” Frank tried to imagine Grandmother’s face if he showed up with two heavily armed friends and a harpy. Everything had changed since his mother’s funeral, since the morning the wolves had taken him south. He’d been so angry about leaving. Now, he couldn’t imagine going back. Still, he and his friends were exhausted. They’d been traveling for more than two days without decent food or sleep. Grandmother could give them supplies. And maybe she could answer some questions that were brewing in the back of Frank’s mind—a growing suspicion about his family gift. “It’s worth a try,” Frank decided. “To Grandmother’s house we go.” Frank was so distracted, he would have walked right into the ogres’ camp. Fortunately Percy pulled him back.

I fell asleep last night to the sweet smell of lavender on my sheets and awoke this morning to the aroma of coffee brewing. How much I would miss if I could not smell the roses in my garden or the fragrance after the rain.

Excerpt from Forehead Kisses: "I woke to the sizzle and smell of bacon, fresh brewed coffee, and the soft patter of rain on the window. Cooper was nowhere to be seen. My clock radio read 7:35 a.m. I rolled over on my stomach and just laid quietly in bed absorbing the sweet sounds and smells. About 10 minutes later I heard Cooper come into the room. I felt the bed rock as he kneeled on and crawled across it, ultimately straddling my body. He pulled the sheet down exposing my naked back. He placed gentle, wet kisses down my spine, “Good morning Beautiful.

Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, ’tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’ Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, There’s brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man. Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world’s not. And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past: The mischief is that ’twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I’ve lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. ’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul’s stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

The Years from You to Me" Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love; a bed between summer and autumn. We drink what somebody brewed neither I nor you nor a third: we lap up some empty and last thing. We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirror and faster pass food to the other: the night is the night, it begins with the morning, beside you it lays me down.

The thing about marriages, bad ones especially, is the utter disregard with which the couple and those around them treat the cracks when they first emerge. Like tectonic plates that crush and grind against each other under the surface of the earth, the damage does not happen on one sunny morning when the earthquake hits. When a couple splits, it is the result of an inevitable break that has been brewing for years without respite.

Claudette looks down at the thing in her hand. She turns it one way and the other. It is a packet of Italian coffee, half used, left behind. Innocuous enough in itself but in Claudette’s hands, this particular morning, it is as dangerous as cyanide. She isn’t going to sniff it, no, she isn’t. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to attempt such a thing. Just a whiff of those smoky, dark, aromatic granules – heated up they always were, at length, lovingly, every morning in this kitchen, for all the years he lived here, the way he would stand waiting for them to brew, looking out of that window, that robe of his loose over his pyjamas, a child, usually, on his shoulder or his arm – would be enough to tip her over the edge. She isn’t going to do it. Certainly not. Then she does, of course. She removes the clip, she places it on the counter, she parts the top of the silver-and-red packet and she brings it to her face and she inhales, she inhales, she inhales.

Anyway, it will give me something to brew about. And there is still a Jerusalem story* to do, and that story about a husband and wife in Venice† that I told you I wanted to do, where the husband suddenly sees his wife passing in one of those vaporettos on the Grand Canal, and yet he knew he had seen her off to fly home to England that morning! I might get about six longish short stories, that would fit into a book, and be sold separately to Journal or Good Housekeeping, in America.

To give a truthful account of London society at that or indeed at any other time, is beyond the powers of the biographer or the historian. Only those who have little need of the truth, and no respect for it — the poets and the novelists — can be trusted to do it, for this is one of the cases where the truth does not exist. Nothing exists. The whole thing is a miasma — a mirage. To make our meaning plain — Orlando could come home from one of these routs at three or four in the morning with cheeks like a Christmas tree and eyes like stars. She would untie a lace, pace the room a score of times, untie another lace, stop, and pace the room again. Often the sun would be blazing over Southwark chimneys before she could persuade herself to get into bed, and there she would lie, pitching and tossing, laughing and sighing for an hour or longer before she slept at last. And what was all this stir about? Society. And what had society said or done to throw a reasonable lady into such an excitement? In plain language, nothing. Rack her memory as she would, next day Orlando could never remember a single word to magnify into the name something. Lord O. had been gallant. Lord A. polite. The Marquis of C. charming. Mr M. amusing. But when she tried to recollect in what their gallantry, politeness, charm, or wit had consisted, she was bound to suppose her memory at fault, for she could not name a thing. It was the same always. Nothing remained over the next day, yet the excitement of the moment was intense. Thus we are forced to conclude that society is one of those brews such as skilled housekeepers serve hot about Christmas time, whose flavour depends upon the proper mixing and stirring of a dozen different ingredients. Take one out, and it is in itself insipid. Take away Lord O., Lord A., Lord C., or Mr M. and separately each is nothing. Stir them all together and they combine to give off the most intoxicating of flavours, the most seductive of scents. Yet this intoxication, this seductiveness, entirely evade our analysis. At one and the same time, therefore, society is everything and society is nothing. Society is the most powerful concoction in the world and society has no existence whatsoever. Such monsters the poets and the novelists alone can deal with; with such something-nothings their works are stuffed out to prodigious size; and to them with the best will in the world we are content to leave it.

Our mornings were never "rise and shine." They were "rise and fight." They were loud and ravaging. They were heavy and unnerving, like the after-math of a war, with unresolved territorial disputes. They were never serene, but they were beautiful. More beautiful than the smile you wear when you step out of the shower, more tempting than the sight of you brewing coffee from across the kitchen bar, more promising than a glorious victory, bigger than all our tumultuous past. Bigger than you. Bigger than I.

How odd, she never drank coffee after her one allotted morning cup anymore; it made her too shaky. As she got the grounds from the refrigerator and started scooping them into a filter, she realized what she was doing. She was conjuring her mother and her aunts, her protectors, all dead now. The surest way to get the attention of the Mancini sisters—even in the afterlife—was coffee in any of its stages: percolating, freshly brewed, stale and burnt, reheated in a microwave. The life cycle of a pot of coffee was the smell of her mother’s apartment. She didn’t know how they did it, those women. They lived on coffee

If, when you say whiskey, you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacles of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degredation and despair, shame and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it with all my power. But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

Kashayam [was] a drink the vanaras had morning, noon and night, and a few times in between. It was a kind of brew with all kinds of herbs thrown in: the thick, sharp-tasting furry karpuravalli, the strong spicy tulsi, the slightly bitter bark of the coconut tree, pungent pepper roots, the breathcatching nellikai, the cool root of vetriver, and just about anything else that was considered edible. And some things that weren’t. In their craze for novelty, vanaras sometimes flung in new kinds of leaves or berries just because they smelt interesting; whole families had been known to fall ill, or even die. Gind’s family were not a very adventurous lot, and stuck to things they knew not to be poisonous. Still, every day’s kashayam was different, and this was a great topic of conversation among the vanaras.

He opened her door, grabbed a quilt from the back of the truck, and pulled her toward the beach. When he found a spot covered with thick sand, he stopped and spread out the blanket. “It’s a little early for sunbathing,” she said. “I don’t remember you being so grumpy in the morning,” he teased. “I didn’t have time for coffee.” He lowered himself to the blanket and pulled her down in front of him. She settled against his chest, his warmth driving away the chill in the air. “Madam . . .” He handed her a thermos she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh, bless you.” She poured the hot brew into the lid, took a sip, and shared with him. Much better. The smell of the brew mingled with the tangy scent of sea air. The cool breeze fanned her skin, pushing her hair from her face, and the water lapped the pebbled shore. The clouds on the horizon were beginning to brighten, the black fading to dark hues of blue. A couple months ago she’d mentioned that she’d never watched a sunrise. He seemed intent on being there for all her firsts. The first time she rented a house. The first time she opened her own bank account. The first time she swam in the ocean. She embraced her freedom, and Beau was there, supporting her however he could.

You've had hot coffee before, and in the hands of a skilled maker, coffee can be amazing. But the fact is that coffee is one of the hardest things to get right in the world. Even with great beans and a great roast and great equipment, a little too much heat, the wrong grind, or letting things go on too long will produce a cup of bitterness. Coffee's full of different acids, and depending on the grind, temperature, roast, and method, you can "overextract" the acids from the beans, or overheat them and oxidize them, producing that awful taste you get at donut shops and Starbucks. But there is Another Way. If you make coffee in cold water, you only extract the sweetest acids, the highly volatile flavors that hint at chocolate and caramel, the ones that boil away or turn to sourness under imperfect circumstances. Brewing coffee in cold water sounds weird, but in fact, it's just about the easiest way to make a cup (or a jar) of coffee. Just grind coffee -- keep it coarse, with grains about the size of sea salt -- and combine it with twice as much water in an airtight jar. Give it a hard shake and stick it somewhere cool overnight (I used a cooler bag loaded with ice from ice camp and wrapped the whole thing in bubble wrap for insulation). In the morning, strain it through a colander and a paper coffee filter. What you've got now is coffee concentrate, which you can dilute with cold water to taste -- I go about half and half. If you're feeling fancy, serve it over ice.

Luna left, too, with a cheery, “Thanks for the morning entertainment. That provided a better jolt than a cup of espresso.” Then it was just Arabella, her brother, and the really, really big man, who had just turned his gaze on her. Given his threats and violent solution, Arabella should have been quaking. At the very least staring at her toes lest she incur his wrath. But the gentlest blue eyes caught hers, and his tone was soft and soothing when he addressed her. “You must be Arabella. I’m Leo, the pride’s omega.” “More like enforcer,” Jeoff muttered, still rubbing his head. “If you behave, then I don’t have to resort to my methods.” “He started it,” Jeoff accused, pointing at finger at Hayder, who emerged from the bedroom clad in low-hipped jeans that hugged his corded thighs and a soft T-shirt that clung to his chest. “Hey, it’s not my fault you jumped to the wrong conclusion when I answered the door.” “What else was I to think? You’re in my sister’s condo wearing only a rag.” “Protecting her.” “The same way you protected her last night when you took her out and flaunted her?” “I took her to dinner.” “What the hell do you mean you took her out to dinner? You put my baby sister in danger.” “She wasn’t in danger.” “They snatched her off the street!” “And I got her back.” The men glared at each, toe-to-toe, bodies bristling. Leo, who’d seated himself on a stool by the kitchen island, cleared his throat. “Don’t make me get off this stool.” The tension remained, but the impending violence moved down a few notches. Seeming satisfied, Leo turned to her. “Coffee?” He addressed that to Arabella, holding out a cup he’d brewed from the machine on the counter. With a wary look at both Hayder and her brother, she went toward him but then almost scalded herself when Hayder barked, “Baby, where are your pants?” Oh yeah. She peeked down at her bare legs. To his credit, Leo didn’t, but he did smile. “How about I add some sugar and milk to this while you find some pants? You look like you need something sweet.” She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Yes, please.” Still ignoring the other two men, she stepped past them to the bedroom, where she scrounged in a drawer for pants. As she dressed, she listened to the arguing. “She’s leaving with me.” Her brother hadn’t relented. Neither did Hayder. “Wrong. Arabella isn’t going anywhere.” Ouch. She knew her brother wouldn’t like that. She was right. “Excuse me? You don’t get a say. She’s my sister, my responsibility. I’m taking her.” Arabella stepped back into the living room. “What of the danger though, Jeoff? The pack is in town, and they’re looking for me.” “We’ll figure something out.” “We already have. She’ll stay here with me where she’s safe.” Hayder crossed his arms over his impressive chest, looking much too determined— and sexy. A certain brother wasn’t impressed. “As safe as she was last night?” Hayder rolled his eyes. “Oh please. What part of ‘we had the situation under control’ can you not grasp? Leo, tell the wolf that Arabella was never in any danger.” “I don’t lie to my friends,” Leo said as he re-handed Arabella her coffee. She took a sip of the hot brew and sighed as she listened to the arguing. When Leo patted the stool beside him, she hopped on. For such a big man, he offered a strangely calming effect. On her at least. Hayder and Jeoff, on the other hand, just couldn’t stem their tirade. “I was wrong to stick her here. So you can forget I asked.” “Too late. She’s part of the pride now.” “She’s a wolf, or have you forgotten? She belongs with her own kind.” Jeoff crooked his finger at her and inclined his head to the door. Arabella didn’t move, more because Hayder’s next words froze her. “She belongs with me. Arabella is my mate.

I don't wake up in the morning desperate to get drunk. I don't hide my drinking from people and I can go without if I have to. I'm not dependent on booze. Interestingly, I do wake up in the morning desperate for croissants. And I do hide my croissant-eating from others. Sometimes I have two or three a day. My croissant habit has affected my social life. I turn up to dinner parties covered in crumbs and people won't look me in the eye. I hide croissants round the house. It may be that I have a croissant problem.

Oh,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “I should probably warn you. Your beds might take a little getting used to.” “Why?” Tesla asked. “What’s wrong with them?” When Uncle Newt had shown them their room earlier, the beds had looked normal enough. Not that Nick and Tesla had paid much attention to them. They’d been distracted—and horrified—by the posters haphazardly stapled to the wall: Teletubbies, Elmo, Smurfs, Albert Einstein, and the periodic table. (Nick and Tesla had quickly agreed that the first three would “fall down” and “accidentally” “get ripped” at the first opportunity.) “There’s nothing wrong with your beds, and everything right!” Uncle Newt declared. “I’m telling you, kids. You haven’t slept till you’ve slept on compost!” “What?” Nick and Tesla said together. Even Uncle Newt couldn’t miss the disgust on their faces. “Maybe I’d better come up and explain,” he said. Uncle Newt pulled the comforter off Nick’s bed and revealed something that didn’t look like a bed at all. It was more like a lumpy black sleeping bag with tubes and wires poking out of one end. “Behold!” Uncle Newt said. “The biomass thermal conversion station!” Nick reluctantly gave it a test-sit. It felt like he was lowering himself onto a garbage bag stuffed with rotten old food. Because he was. “As you sleep,” Uncle Newt explained, “your body heat will help decompose food scraps pumped into the unit, which will in turn produce more heat that the convertor will turn into electricity. So, by the time you wake up in the morning, you’ll have enough power to—ta da!” Uncle Newt waved his hands at a coffeemaker sitting on the floor nearby. “Brew coffee?” Tesla said. Uncle Newt gave her a gleeful nod. “We don’t drink coffee,” said Nick. “Then you can have a hot cup of invigorating fresh-brewed water.” “Great,” Nick said. He experimented with a little bounce on his “bed.” He could feel slimy things squishing and squashing beneath his butt. “Comfy?” Uncle Newt asked. “Uhh … kind of,” Nick said. Uncle Newt beamed at his invention. “Patent pending,” he said. Uncle Newt was a gangly man with graying hair, but at that moment he looked like a five-year-old thinking about Christmas. Tesla gave the room a tentative sniff. “Shouldn’t the compost stink?” “Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Each biomass thermal conversion station is completely airtight!” Uncle Newt’s smile wavered just the teeniest bit. “In theory.” Nick opened his mouth to ask another question, but Uncle Newt didn’t seem to notice. “Well,” he said, slapping his hands together, “I guess you two should wash your teeth and brush your faces and all that. Good night!

eight cups of water, add a handful of bulk dried hibiscus or four bags of tea in which hibiscus is the first ingredient. Then add the juice of one lemon and three tablespoons of erythritol, and leave it in your fridge to cold-brew overnight. In the morning, strain out the hibiscus or take out the tea bags, shake well, and drink throughout the day.

My hair often has a mind of its own. This morning, apparently, it was feeling batshit crazy. Instead

While you have been waking up to the aroma of coffee brewing, dressing to the hushed rhythm of other people’s labor, I have been in the kitchen since I was six and in your kitchen since six this morning. In my life as a minor domestic, a bit character in your daily dramas, I have prepared thousands of omelets. You have attempted three, each effort wasted, a discarded half-moon with burnt-butter craters, a simple dish that in a stark and economical way separates you and me.

It couldn’t have been more obvious they’d had sex if they’d had T-shirts made to mark the occasion. They’d barely said two words to each other and they’d avoided eye contact at all costs, but they weren’t fighting. Anger wasn’t the vibe filling the kitchen with tension. No, it was morning-after awkwardness and she couldn’t be happier about it. By the time she was done puttering around the kitchen, it was a decent enough hour to call Mary. She brewed herself some tea and took it into the living room to get comfortable. “You were right about Mitch making a difference,” she said after they’d exchanged hellos. “Sean didn’t like him touching her. I swear, that kiss almost set the grass under their feet on fire.” “Guess who didn’t sleep on the couch last night?” “And the plot thickens,” Mary said, and they laughed.

She opened her eyes and then frowned. “Why are you dressed?” “Because I got up and got dressed so I could find some coffee, but I changed my mind and I’m coming back to bed.” “Fully dressed?” “Yes. No shoes, though.” It was too early to follow along with his crazy bouncing ball of logic. “Did Gram put a pot of coffee on yet?” He groaned and threw his arm over his eyes. “Not exactly.” “What is wrong with you this morning?” “I just ran into your grandmother. She was sneaking into the house…in the same dress she wore last night.” “What?” Emma sat up, aches and pains forgotten. “You caught Gram doing the walk of shame?” “Yes, and it was awkward and now I’m going back to bed.” She pushed his arm off his face. “What did she say?” “She said good-morning and told me she was going to take a quick shower and then start breakfast.” “And what did you say?” “I muttered something about taking her time and then ran like a girl.” Emma flopped back onto her pillow and stare at the ceiling. “Wow.” “I probably should have broken it to you better, but I’m not sure how I could have.” She didn’t know what to say. Go, Gram, a part of her was thinking, but another part wanted to hide under the covers with Sean and not deal with the fact her grandmother was currently taking a shower after doing the walk of shame. That was obviously the side of himself Sean was currently listening to. “We have to go down eventually,” she said. “I need coffee. And food.” “I’ll wait here. Bring some back.” She laughed and slapped his thigh. “If I can face her, so can you. She’s not your grandmother.” “It was awkward.” “I’m sure it’s awkward for her, knowing we’re having sex, but she’s an adult about it.” That just made him cover his face with his arm again. “That’s different.” “Why? Because she’s sixty-five?” “No. Because, as you just said, she’s a grandmother. Your grandmother.” “Come on. We’ll go down together.” She slid out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. “Stop making it such a big deal.” Gram was still in the shower when they went past the bathroom on their way down the hall. They could tell because she was whistling a very cheery tune that made Sean wince. Emma grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the stairs. “Coffee.” They got a pot going and sat at the table in silence until enough had brewed to sneak two cups from it. Emma put the kettle on and dropped a tea bag into Gram’s mug. The woman of the hour appeared just as it whistled, looking refreshed and cheerful. “Good morning.” “Good morning,” they both mumbled.

Gerbert, by the window, shuddered; his mouth contorted. The witch began to twist faster and faster while her twin was talking to Gisela, mumbling to her, marching old holy words straight through the child’s ear into her skull, where they entered the bloodstream and looked for the enemy. The monk’s fingers twitched in the same rhythm and he found himself falling into a trance. He knew it would be dangerous to witness the witches brewing and dancing but there was an energy in it that he’d missed badly since he’d been asked to educate the young princess. Gerbert didn’t even notice when the hags stopped, tucked the girl in, rubbed the concoction on her lips and left for the unseen place from which they had come. Gisela healed quickly thereafter: The fever fell that same night and she asked for solid food the next morning. She had no memory of what had happened, but when she bounced on one leg across the meadow in the castle yard, she chanted a little melody that had not been heard in church, an odd melody that made Gerbert’s ears prick up because he sensed the uncanny in it.

about my No. 1 goal and decide which three things I’m going to do on this day to move closer toward reaching it. For example, at the time of this writing, my No. 1 goal is to deepen the love and intimacy in my marriage. Each morning I plan three things I can do to make sure that my wife feels loved, respected, and beautiful. When I get up, I put on a pot of coffee, and while it’s brewing, I do a series of stretches for about ten minutes—something I picked up from Dr. Oz. If you’ve lifted weights your whole life as I have, you get stiff. I realized that the only way I was going to incorporate more stretching into my life was to make it a routine. I had to figure out where in my schedule I could stick it in—and while the coffee’s brewing is as good a time as any. Once I’ve stretched and poured my cup, I sit in my comfy leather recliner, set my iPhone for thirty minutes (no more, no less), and read something positive and instructional. When the alarm sounds, I take my most important project and

It stands across a gentle slope up from the main house, separated by a glade of trees through which the sun rises into our windows every morning; and the sun sets, through those same trees, in the evenings into the windows of the second place. Those windows go from the floor to the ceiling, so that the huge horizontal bar of the marsh and its drama – its sweeping passages of colour and light, the brewing of its distant storms, the great drifts of seabirds that float or settle over its pelt in white flecks, the sea that sometimes lies roaring at the very furthest line of the horizon in a boiling white foam and sometimes advances gleaming and silent until it has covered everything in a glassy sheet of water – seem to be right there in the room with you.

Make thyself a tempting brew, start with a kettle of morning dew. Add maple sugar and honey, too. The petals of roses, brightest blue….

Coffee. That’s what I need. She switched on the machine and stared into nothingness as it brewed her espresso. I do hope things start to get easier soon, so I can go back to ignoring mornings altogether.

To change your usual morning olfactory association—waking to the smell of freshly brewed coffee—wake up to something different—vanilla, citrus, peppermint, or rosemary. Keep an extract of your favorite aroma in an airtight container on your bedside table for a week and release it when you first awaken, and then

I meditate on the intricacies of my home. The fourth step on the staircase that always creaks. The downstairs bathroom with the leaky faucet. The way my kitchen smells as coffee brews first thing in the morning. All the tiny, seemingly insignificant details upon which my world hangs.

It was pouring down cats and dogs A calico came in and sat with her drenched coat To the Phantom building at the corner street, I asked Why, you already know where I have to go? I already took a cat there, maybe there's a big fish hiding, you never know She found her way out of my space, and into the unbeknownst tower Whilst I rushed my way to my dear alpaca's cower It was a long day, we chatted, she spoke, I listened I wore my cap yet again, whilst she went her own way to the hospital's convokation Morning coffee brewed up, and the tv was loud and clear Under suspicion of murder and theft, a calico has been tried and arrested, I listened in the utmost queer Why, it was the same black I once drove But it wasn't the shade that was dripping wet before

The Calico and The Odd Taxi It was pouring down cats and dogs A calico came in and sat with her drenched coat To the Phantom building at the corner street, I asked Why, you already know where I have to go? I already took a cat there, maybe there's a big fish hiding, you never know She found her way out of my space, and into the unbeknownst tower Whilst I rushed my way to my dear alpaca's cower It was a long day, we chatted, she spoke, I listened I wore my cap yet again, whilst she went her own way to the hospital's convokation Morning coffee brewed up, and the tv was loud and clear Under suspicion of murder and theft, a calico has been tried and arrested, I listened in the utmost queer Why, it was the same black I once drove But it wasn't the shade that was dripping wet before

On Monday morning, October 27, 1969, Sheila fried up a couple of eggs slotted in some toast and brewed three cups of tea while I wrote something called “Your Song.” I don’t think it took me more than ten minutes, but it’s eventual melodic accompaniment and release would traverse decades, becoming our signature song and, in the minds of many, our first bona fide classic.

We like to think our choices are the result of the very best calculations, a reflection of who we are. But in truth some decisions are made before we even know of them. They’re part of the landscape ahead, just waiting for us to arrive. 4 Stephen’s house smelled of freshly brewed coffee when I stepped inside early the next morning, and it gave me life. “In the kitchen,” Stephen called as I came in with Merrill, who immediately padded away into the next room like he owned the place.

A ray of light slipped inside the kitchen window, cutting through the early morning fog that covered the terrain. Alicia savored the crisp scent of pine trees that mingled with the aroma of her freshly brewed coffee. The chill of the Pacific Northwest morning seeped through the cabin’s walls, the fog swirling around the evergreens outside, creating an almost mystical atmosphere. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, drawing comfort from its heat as she prepared for the full day ahead

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From somewhere LaMeche produced a coffee pot and coffee. I will never be able to find the words to express what it was like to sit before the fire, smelling coffee brew on that horrible night. Somehow it seemed to be a promise that the world would one day be normal again. The trader had also found a couple of battered tin cups. I clutched the cup closely in chilled hands and drank of the dark, hot liquid. I knew that with the help of the coffee I would somehow make it through this nightmare until the morning came again.

The first morning, emerging from your bivouac-thing, there is a great sense of joy and freedom. You feel quite alone in the world and no one knows who you are or why you are there. You could be in a campsite surrounded by happy families or out in the wild woods with silent, dumb creatures that creep and crawl. It makes no difference, the point is that you are alone because you wanted it this way. You don’t talk to a soul the whole time. You just get up, brew a coffee on a camping stove and then zip up the tent and go. If doesn’t really matter where you go either. You know that you have about twelve hours ahead of you just to yourself. So you start walking, along the coast, up a hill, by a river, down a valley, anywhere on and on, stopping every now and then for a banana and a drink (massive water bottle) and a sit. It feels good. You find yourself skipping no, gambolling, like a newborn lamb. In your head, details about daily life swiftly give way to songs, hymns you used to know, praise, yes praise, for God’s mind-blowing creation. Your thoughts then turn to God because there aren’t any people about and you find yourself chatting amicably with Him. Sometimes there are tears, sobbing even, but this comes with emptying. It’s really all about emptying and then, renewal. This is what we miss if we don’t empty stuff. By nightfall, the little tent and sleeping bag beckon; you greet them both joyfully and shut down. Usually it’s freezing and sleep comes in patches, but the night time wakefulness is all part of it. You use it to set things straight, mentally. Another day ahead, more wanderings, then hunger sets in and you head for home, refreshed.

An end where I'd fall asleep in Ramirez's arms every night. Where I'd wake up every morning to the sound of his shower and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Where we'd sit on the sofa and watch movies without worrying about which one of us had to drive home in an hour for an early morning. Where I knew that no matter how horrible my bed-head was in the morning, he'd still love me anyway. Where no matter how many cases took him away in the middle of the night, I knew he'd always come home to me. Our home. Where one day we'd start a family, watch it grow, and hold hands on the front porch as we turned into old, wrinkly, prunes who only had eyes for each other.

The air is pure here, scented only with perfume as I gaze around me at my chamber. Seated at my mirror, I look almost as a courtesan might once have done. My hair is long and a deep, natural red. It’s a colour women once tried to replicate but never got quite right. It’s long and sleek, my eyes a pale blue, like the sky reflected off the water in the earliest hours of morning. The water is no longer that colour now – it’s as if night never lifted. The invaders have darkened the skies with clouds that shift and roil like a witch’s vile brew. I shift my thoughts away from it and it becomes a memory, easily forgotten for the moment as I watch myself in the mirror.

The hour that was for them, for us, for all who had awakened one morning to see their fields covered with blood rather than harvest, who didn't seek to change the world but lived in good faith and prayer offered to an imposing God, for the young women who mended their men's clothing and held their sons' mouths to the purple nipples of sweet breasts, for the man who watched the suns descend behind the mountain every evening and dreamed and when his sons were grown, passed on his dreams, for the black nights when guitars harmonized with the wind's song, to the bottle of regional brew, and a hand-rolled cigarette, to the baptism and a dance of celebration, to the aroma of soups simmering on wood-burning stoves and filled the bellies of those who worked the fields, to a candle that burned in vigil while a hungry mind gulped the printed truth of another's legacy, to the owl that called from between the moon and earth while lovers enwrapped their passion on silver tinted grass, to the history of the world and to its future, to all that had lived and died and had been born again in that moment as i approached am opaque window and pointed my weapon.

I got up and turned off the coffee machine, pouring the last of the brew into my cup. I sat back down and sipped it, wondering why I bothered; there was no reason for me to be awake and alert. I had all the leisure time a man could want—I was suspended from work, and being stalked by somebody who thought he was turning himself into me. And if he somehow missed me, I was still under investigation for a murder I hadn’t committed. Considering how many I had gotten away with, that was probably very ironic. I tried a hollow, mocking laugh at myself, but it sounded too spooky in the sudden silence of the empty house. So I slurped coffee and concentrated on self-pity for a while. It came surprisingly easily; I really was the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice, and it was a simple matter for me to feel wounded, martyred, betrayed by the very system I had served so long and well. Luckily, my native wit trickled back in before I began to sing country songs, and I turned my thoughts toward finding a way out of my predicament. But in spite of the fact that I finished the coffee—my third cup of the morning, too—I couldn’t seem to kick my brain out of the glutinous sludge of misery it had fallen into. I was reasonably sure that Hood could not find anything and make it stick to me; there was nothing there to find. But I also knew that he was very anxious to solve Camilla’s murder—both so that he would look good to the department and the press and, just as importantly, so he could make Deborah look bad. And if I added in the uncomfortable fact that he was obviously aided and abetted by Sergeant Doakes and his toxic tunnel vision, I had to conclude that the outlook was far from rosy. I didn’t really believe they would manufacture evidence merely in order to frame me, but on the other hand—why wouldn’t they? It had happened before, even with an investigating officer who had a whole lot less on the line. The

Prisoners were also poorly fed. Although they were given three meals a day, the food was unappetizing. In the morning, they were only given a coffee-like brew which consisted of boiled water with a grain-based coffee substitute. Lunch was a liter of soup which consisted of potatoes and rutabagas along with rye flour and some groats.  Supper was 300 grams of black bread along with some sausage or other spread like cheese, margarine or marmalade. The bread was also supposed to last until morning, but the prisoners were so famished they usually ate the whole portion of bread at one sitting.

To eight cups of water, add a handful of bulk dried hibiscus or four bags of tea in which hibiscus is the first ingredient. Then add the juice of one lemon and three tablespoons of erythritol, and leave it in your fridge to cold-brew overnight. In the morning, strain out the hibiscus or take out the tea bags, shake well, and drink throughout the day. That’s something I try to do every day I’m home. For extra credit, add green foam: Pour a cup of the tea into a blender with a bunch of fresh mint leaves, blend on high, and enjoy. You end up with dark-green leafies blended into what may be the highest antioxidant beverage in the world, and it tastes like fruit punch.

Embrace Efficiency, Elevate Flavor: Smart Kitchen Tools for Culinary Adventurers The kitchen, once a realm of necessity, has morphed into a playground of possibility. Gone are the days of clunky appliances and tedious prep work. Enter the age of the smart kitchen tool, a revolution that whispers efficiency and shouts culinary liberation. For the modern gastronome, these tech-infused gadgets are not mere conveniences, but allies in crafting delectable adventures, freeing us to savor the journey as much as the destination. Imagine mornings when your smart coffee maker greets you with the perfect brew, prepped by the whispers of your phone while you dream. Your fridge, stocked like a digital oracle, suggests recipes based on its ever-evolving inventory, and even automatically orders groceries you've run low on. The multi-cooker, your multitasking superhero, whips up a gourmet chili while you conquer emails, and by dinnertime, your smart oven roasts a succulent chicken to golden perfection, its progress monitored remotely as you sip a glass of wine. But efficiency is merely the prologue. Smart kitchen tools unlock a pandora's box of culinary precision. Smart scales, meticulous to the milligram, banish recipe guesswork and ensure perfect balance in every dish. Food processors and blenders, armed with pre-programmed settings and self-cleaning prowess, transform tedious chopping into a mere blip on the culinary radar. And for the aspiring chef, a sous vide machine becomes a magic wand, coaxing impossible tenderness from the toughest cuts of meat. Yet, technology alone is not the recipe for culinary bliss. For those who yearn to paint with flavors, smart kitchen tools are the brushes on their canvas. A connected recipe platform becomes your digital sous chef, guiding you through each step with expert instructions and voice-activated ease. Spice racks, infused with artificial intelligence, suggest unexpected pairings, urging you to venture beyond the familiar. And for the ultimate expression of your inner master chef, a custom knife, forged from heirloom steel and lovingly honed, becomes an extension of your hand, slicing through ingredients with laser focus and lyrical grace. But amidst the symphony of gadgets and apps, let us not forget the heart of the kitchen: the human touch. Smart tools are not meant to replace our intuition but to augment it. They free us from the drudgery, allowing us to focus on the artistry, the love, the joy of creation. Imagine kneading dough, the rhythm of your hands mirroring the gentle whirring of a smart bread machine, then shaping a loaf that holds the warmth of both technology and your own spirit. Or picture yourself plating a dish, using smart portion scales for precision but garnishing with edible flowers chosen simply because they spark joy. This, my friends, is the symphony of the smart kitchen: a harmonious blend of tech and humanity, where efficiency becomes the brushstroke that illuminates the vibrant canvas of culinary passion. Of course, every adventure, even one fueled by smart tools, has its caveats. Interoperability between gadgets can be a tangled web, and data privacy concerns linger like unwanted guests. But these challenges are mere bumps on the culinary road, hurdles to be overcome by informed choices and responsible data management. After all, we wouldn't embark on a mountain trek without checking the weather, would we? So, embrace the smart kitchen, dear foodies! Let technology be your sous chef, your precision tool, your culinary muse. But never forget the magic of your own hands, the wisdom of your palate, and the joy of a meal shared with loved ones. For in the end, it's not about the gadgets, but the memories we create around them, the stories whispered over simmering pots, and the laughter echoing through a kitchen filled with the aroma of possibility.

I need to take Longganisa for her morning walk." My adorable dachshund accompanied me to work every day and was content to spend most of the day napping in my office, but I tried to be good dog parent and take her out for multiple walks throughout the day. The Brew-ha Cafe was dog-friendly, and Nisa proved to be one of our most successful promo attempts. Whenever people saw her walking around in her adorable Brew-ha Cafe-themed outfits, custom-made by my friend's daughter, they'd stop and ask to pet her. The perfect opportunity to hand over my business card and invite them to the cafe. Today, Nisa was outfitted in a lemon-yellow Brew-ha Cafe dress and a little flower crown to welcome spring.

I’ve always wanted a house in the country. Here and now, I have one. The door’s hinges squeak and the floorboards creak. There is a soft scent of sandalwood and bergamot. On the crisp awakening of the morrow’s morning, I will brew freshly ground coffee and allow it’s bitterness to warm my insides. My mind is buzzing with stories, the ones I conjure, the ones I have already conjured, and the ones I have yet to conjure, in the fragrant Spring air, on the patio, in my wooden rocking chair.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a minute. Then, just like she’d told me to do, I opened my curtains. The sky was blue, and the windows of my apartment were in the right direction to get morning sunshine. I started my coffee, then went to open Twitter to read while it brewed. A pop-up message appeared instead: Don’t read Twitter. Here is a link to the Abelique discussion board community for artists.

She touched the journal she kept in her pocket---every morning, she reviewed the wishers she and Agata would visit and cross-referenced their requests with similar ones that had been made before. She'd been up since dawn looking up the way to break a bear curse. Agata assured her that such spells and their remedies were like recipes and would become second nature to her given time and experience. "Climb to the top of Mount Reve and take nine leaves from the crooked tree that grows there," said Chiara from memory. Reading off her notes wouldn't instill confidence in Rosa or her ursine betrothed. "Brew a tea from the tree and have him drink it. By the morn, he will be born again.

IDID LIE in the meadow in the penetrating Provençal sun, and I did drink teas brewed from herbs picked that morning by my children, and I even lay in baths redolent of branches of fresh thyme . . . I let the hot sun and the meadow smells soothe me.

Is there a small habit that can support a major habit?” (For example, packing your exercise clothes in the morning so they’ll be ready for the gym in the evening.) “Do I often end the day frustrated because I didn’t complete the most important tasks?” (Identify the most important tasks for the next day and then schedule them into your calendar.) “What quick activities make me feel inspired or happy?” (For example, watching a short motivational video each morning.) “What five goals are the most important to me right now?” (What can you do daily to support all five of these goals?) “What are the activities that I love to do?” (Think of tasks that can support hobbies, like running, knitting, traveling, or reading.) “What areas of my financial life do I need to improve?” (If you’re in debt, then address this first. But if you have money in the bank, then you should build a habit that focuses on building up your investment portfolio.) “Can I improve the quality of my interpersonal relationships?” (Think about your interactions with your parents, children, significant other, and closest friends. Is there anything you can do daily to make these interactions better?) “What makes me feel great about myself?” (If something brings you enjoyment, then you should either do it every day or schedule time for it each week.) “How can I become more spiritual in my daily life?” (For example, read from a book of prayers, practice a bit of yoga, or recite positive affirmations.) “What is a new skill I’ve always wanted to master?” (For example, make a habit of researching and learning about talents like home brewing, playing a musical instrument, learning a new language, or anything that sounds fun.) “Is there anything I can do to support my local community or an important cause?” (We all believe in something. So if you schedule time daily for this activity, then it’s not hard to consistently help others.) “Is there something that I can do to improve my job performance and get a raise?” (For example, build a skill that will become valuable to the company.)

she was going straight into Hollywood Station. 9 Ballard kept all her work suits in her locker at the station and dressed for her shifts after arriving each night. She had four different suits that followed the same cut and style but differed in color and pattern. She dry-cleaned them two at a time so that she always had a suit and a backup available. After arriving nearly eight hours early for her shift, Ballard changed into the gray suit that was her favorite. She accompanied it with a white blouse. She kept four white blouses and one navy in her locker as well. It was Friday and that meant Ballard was scheduled to work solo. She and Jenkins had to cover seven shifts a week, so Ballard took Tuesday to Saturday and Jenkins covered Sunday to Thursday, giving them three overlap days. When they took vacation time, their slots usually went unfilled. If a detective in the division was needed during the early-morning hours, then someone had to be called in from home. Working solo suited Ballard because she didn’t have to run decisions by her partner. On this day, if he had known what Ballard’s plan was, Jenkins would have put the kibosh on it. But because it was Friday, they would not be working together again until the following Tuesday, and she was clear to make her own moves. After suiting up, Ballard checked herself in the mirror over the locker room sinks. She combed her sun-streaked hair with her fingers. That was all she usually had to do. Constant immersion in salt water and exposure to the sun over years had left her with broken, flyaway hair that she kept no longer than chin length out of necessity. It went well with her tan and gave off a slightly butch look that reduced advances from other officers. Olivas had been an exception. Ballard squeezed some Visine drops into her eyes, which were red from the salt water. After that she was good to go. She went into the break room to brew a double-shot espresso on the Keurig. She would be operating now and through the night on less than three hours of sleep. She needed to start stacking caffeine. She kept her eye on the wall clock because she wanted to time her arrival in the detective bureau at shortly before four p.m., when she knew the lead detective in the CAPs unit would also be watching the clock, getting ready to split for the weekend. She had at least fifteen minutes to kill, so she went upstairs to the offices of the buy-bust team next to the vice unit. Major Narcotics was located downtown but each division operated

Evangeline reached for the pot and froze. It was empty. Her gaze darted to the power light, which was not glowing green and happy. Therefore, she was not glowing green and happy. “What fresh hell is this?” she demanded, checking the grounds carafe. It was full, so that wasn’t the issue. She opened the water lid. It, too, was full. She pushed the brew now button, but nothing happened. Still no happy, glowy green. She glared at the machine she’d purchased specifically because it boasted a timer— so the brewed goodness would be waiting on her each morning, not the other way around.

On a gorgeous mid-May morning with temperatures still in the seventies, all was right with Ali Reynolds’s world. The cobalt blue sky overhead was unblemished by even a single cloud, and Sedona’s towering red rocks gleamed in brilliant sunlight. The seemingly endless remodeling project on Ali’s recently purchased Manzanita Hills Road house had finally come to an end. The workers were gone, along with their trucks and their constant noise. Now, seated on her newly refurbished flagstone patio and surrounded by an ancient wisteria in full and glorious bloom, she was enjoying the peace and quiet, as well as a third cup of freshly brewed coffee,

After the better part of a month working in the fringed cold, we were ready. There were still a few minor things to do but the ship was now completely primed and painted, with her name outlined with spot welds on each side of the bow and the stern. That morning, prior to sailing from Boston, I slipped ashore and bought a case of Budweiser beer. There was a lot of activity around the ship so no one noticed when I returned with beer in my sea bag. I distributed the three six-packs I had sold to classmates and the remaining one was for the guys in my room. I hung the brew out of the porthole, wrapped and tied securely in a towel. For us the porthole wasn’t just a small round window to the outside, it was also our refrigerator for keeping things cold! We didn’t get going until after dark, expecting to be on the Penobscot River back in Maine by daybreak. I was on the afterdeck trying to free lines that were solidly frozen from the cold, when I felt a jarring under foot. Looking over the railings, I saw one of the tugboats right outside of where our room was. He had bumped into us, and now with his engines roaring in reverse, was backing down. What the hell was going on? Instinctively, I knew what had happened. I dropped the mooring lines onto the deck and left the flaking down of them to others. I quickly ran to our room and opened the porthole, confirming what I already knew. Our beer was gone! Damn it, the tugboat was disappearing into the dark and they would be the ones drinking our beer that night! At least we still had some cold pizza. Free of the dock, we headed down the Inner Harbor, past Logan International Airport and Deer Island towards the Atlantic. We had worked hard to get our ship ready, and had every reason to be proud, as we steamed out of Boston Harbor that night. We were on our way back to Castine and to the Academy. By the next morning, we were sailing under the Waldo-Hancock Bridge into Bucksport Harbor.

Imbalance of the adrenal hormones is one of the most common conditions I see in my practice. The typical cause is chronic stress, which can result in diminished adrenal function (sometimes called “adrenal exhaustion” or “adrenal fatigue”) and may include the depletion of DHEA. DHEA and cortisol levels are most reliably determined using saliva tests. It takes time to resolve adrenal depletion, which is a condition that typically brews for months, if not years. You can promote adrenal balance by attending to the basics: Learn stress-management techniques, drink plenty of water, and regulate your blood sugar levels by eating small meals throughout the day. Along with potential bone loss, some of the most common symptoms of adrenal imbalance are listed below: • allergies/ asthma • arthritis • chemical sensitivities • morning/ evening fatigue • high blood sugar • inflammation • increased abdominal fat • memory lapses • sleep disturbances • susceptibility to infections • autoimmune illness • sugar cravings • aches and pains • infertility • chronic illness • elevated triglycerides • depression or anxiety • nervousness or irritability

The Morning Ritual: Planning for It PLAN AHEAD The first thing you can do is plan your morning the night before. This means making sure you have lemons for your hot lemon water, getting the coffee ready to brew, and setting your alarm to allow ten to fifteen minutes to center yourself. You can go a step further by making any decisions you might need to make the next morning, like choosing an outfit, looking at your calendar to mentally construct what lies ahead so you can adjust for it, or picking which guided meditation you are going to use. COMMIT TO YOUR ROUTINE Stick with the plan. Make a commitment for the next thirty to forty days that no matter how shitty you feel, you’ll carry out your morning routine. When I set out to train myself to brush my teeth every night, it took some brain power. I had to make the decision to do it and debate myself almost every single time. But without fail, I made myself brush my teeth until it became automatic, something I did without much fuss. You don’t have to keep up this practice forever, and chances are it will fall off at some point, but right now you’re in training to not drink. DESIGNATE A PLACE TO MEDITATE This might sound frivolous but it is terribly important: create a place where you will meditate every morning. You don’t have to build an altar or buy a meditation cushion, although you can. It might even just be your bed (I meditate mostly in my bed, though I have a space set up in my basement). Remember you are investing in your healing, and understand that the more intention you put into something or the more special you make it, the more likely you are to do it. You can, if you want, go

Minutes later the waitress brought back a cup the size of a soup bowl filled with steaming chocolate-flavored coffee and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Tianna realized she hadn't eaten anything since the bite of muffin early in the morning. She sipped the brew, enjoying the rich, sweet taste, and listened to Serena recite a poem about her demon lover. It made Tianna think more than ever that Serena was some kind of witch or worse. How could she know so much about temptation and choosing between good and evil? The words sent chills through Tianna.

This went on year after year (1 Samuel 1:7). Not day after day, week after week, or even month after month, but year after year. Some of us can barely wait for our coffee to brew in the morning without a nervous breakdown (don’t judge me); how in the name of all that is good and holy are we supposed to survive weeks, months, or years of delay for the real blessings?

She will leave me. It’s six AM. Breakfast for one. Eggs, sunny-side-up, like the morning outside; two-cheese English muffin, melting in the toaster oven; already humid outside; coffee will be a little bitter today, no matter how much sweetener gets put in it. The OJ will stay in the fridge – my stomach can do without the citric acid bombardment this morning. She will pack her things and leave me. Coffee brews. Radio station plays then breaks from classical music, telling me what's already evident about the weather. She will complain that she cannot get along with me. Eggs pop and sizzle as the news comes on.

While I’m out working with Tommy Quinn, we get chatting about a session, a few nights previous, in a local pub called The Hill. It gets its name from the plain fact that it sits on top of a hill. The conversation moves on to the state of rural Ireland, and rural everywhere for that matter. He’s lived here in Knockmoyle for all of his life, so his opinions on the subject hold weight with me. He asks me what technology I think had the most dramatic impact on life here when he was growing up. I state what I feel are obvious: the television, the motor car and computers. Or electricity in general. Tommy smiles. The flask, he says. I ask him to explain. When he was growing up in the 1960s, he and his family would go to the bog, along with most of the other families of the parish, to cut turf for fuel for the following winter. They would all help each other out in any way they could, even if they didn’t always fully get on. Cutting turf in the old ways, using a sleán, is hard but convivial work, so each day one family would make a campfire to boil the kettle on. But the campfire had a more significant role than just hydrating the workers. As well as keeping the midges away, it was a focal point that brought folk together during important seasonal events. During the day people would have the craic around it as the tea brewed, and in the evenings food would be cooked on it. By nightfall, with the day’s work behind them, the campfire became the place where music, song and dance would spontaneously happen. Before the night was out, one of the old boys would hide one of the young lads’ wheelbarrows, providing no end of banter the following morning.

Well, I just wanted to let you know. Thought you’d find it exciting.” “It is,” Annie said, suddenly wondering how that sestina ended. “We love you, Annie,” her parents said, in unison. “Yes,” Annie replied. “Me too.” The next morning, Annie circled her room and stared at the magazine writer, stripped down to his underwear, in her bed. His briefs were neon purple, which Annie did not find attractive or unattractive, simply a detail worthy of notice. She was not hungover, which meant she hadn’t been that drunk the night before, which meant this wasn’t a completely terrible idea on her part. “Right?” she told herself, coffee brewing in the kitchen. “This wasn’t a completely terrible idea on my part.

It’s the everyday simple pleasures - the delicious aroma of coffee brewing, the buttery texture of a fresh croissant, the chirping of birds, the warmth of early morning sunshine, the laughter of children – that truly constitute joie de vivre.