*glub glub glub* *ssnniffffffff* MMMMMMmmmm...

(Mike here.)

That's my morning gig, most days--a steaming cup of espresso, the caffeinated equivalent of Jack Daniels. I drink my regular coffee with tons of sugar and cream--exactly the way my mother drank it (I learned it by drinking hers as a toddler), and my cousin Drew (his mother contemptuously calls it ice cream) and, most pleasantly of all, my own Katie. We go through lots of sugar. Sundays, like for most folks, is our lazy breakfast day, and we'll make something that involves maple syrup. I have a few different types of pancake mix in the pantry, and one of them, this really rich apple & cinnamon mix, requires eggs. So a week ago, I open the fridge, but find no eggs.

Oh, well, plan B it is: Bisquick, needing only water. (If you butter the pancakes as soon as they're off the griddle, and sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on 'em, they're plenty sweet regardless.) So, no eggs, no problem. But when I'd ground the beans, and Katie came down and started boiling the water, I looked for the sugar, there was none to be found. "Back in ten, babe!" and I was out the door.

Some things just can't be overlooked.

But I drink my espresso neat: dark, strong, and occasionally bitter. I blame Iron Man. I thought the film rocked, I loved seeing Robert Downey Jr. get back on track and doing something with his tremendous talent, I love special effects films, and I just adored the sleekness of Tony Stark's life. Since I lack the multimillion-dollar California coast mansion, the billion-dollar income, the worldwide status as a genius, the stable full of sports cars (heck, my lousy little Z3 is 11 years old and it's only a four-cylinder) and the voice-activated holographic computer, I figured I could go with drinking espresso.

Yes, I really am that susceptible. But I think living well partly means keeping the child in me alive, you know? (I even went with the goatee for a while. Katie likes it, but let's just say, it's not a hygienic choice when you have a cold.)

Most mornings I'm up a few hours before Katie, who luxuriates like any feline in her sleeping spot (though the dudes working on the roof right now--at all of half past seven--might be making that a bit difficult for her. They're directly overhead our unit). So I grind enough beans for my cup of hi-test, as well as the French press of regular we'll share later on, and get to reviewing the morning's news. (This includes poring over the New York sports pages when the Yankees lose, or even when they win but one of their pitchers stinks it up, like Joba kind of did last night. At least Beckett and Pap held it together for Boston.) So I get my morning blast of info, a dose of caffeine, and a bit of comic fantasy before getting on with the day in earnest (which these days amounts to reading, and looking online for jobs).

Katie didn't drink much coffee before, anyway, but the pregnancy has brought, along with all its other changes, recurrent headaches, sometimes rising to the level of migraines. The doctor prescribed a bizarre pill combining Tylenol, caffeine, and some other drug, but when Katie found online testimony that it can be addictive to both mother and baby, she dropped it (especially after it left her feeling a little high, and also seemed to precipitate an even worse headache the following day). So Kate's mother--ever the genius of common sense, as mothers are--suggested forgetting the pills (Tylenol does nothing for Katie anyway), and getting the caffeine through a regular cup of coffee.

Presto! Taught her how to grind the beans and use the press, and now she's a regular coffeeholic like I am. Welcome to the club, bengal!