Everyone I know has a small, daily ritual they perform. My sister reads the bible every morning while drinking her coffee. My mother-in-law can't leave the house unless her bed is made perfectly. My husband can't sleep unless he has watched the news.

I start thinking about my ritual before I've even gotten out of bed. I shower and while I'm washing my hair, I'm thinking about my ritual. In the kitchen, still damp from my shower, wearing my robe with my wet hair wrapped in a towel turban, I begin to make coffee.

Coffee was always the main event in my family. My mother always had a pot of coffee on the back burner ready for family or guests. She still does. The smell of coffee permeated the air of our house. Even if my mother made cabbage for dinner, the coffee scent hit you first.

The summer between eighth and ninth grade I decided to have my first cup of coffee. It was also the year I failed English and Math. I had to attend summer school. My father was silent and withdrawn. He'd barely spoken to me since report cards had come home in June. He was driving me to the high school every morning on his way to work and I felt incredibly uncomfortable. I'm not sure what prompted me to have a cup of coffee but I do remember thinking that I was old enough now.

I opened the cabinet next to the sink and found a small jar of Sanka. My mother kept it for my aunt because she would only drink decaf. I had no idea how to make a pot of real coffee but I knew how to boil water and that's why I picked Sanka. I put the teapot on the stove to boil water when my father came into the kitchen.

"Don't keep me waiting today," he said while knotting his tie. He only called me by my full name when he was angry with me.

He sat down at the table and lit his first unfiltered Pall Mall of the day.

"What are you doing?" he asked. A thin stream of smoke escaped with his words.

"Having coffee," I said softly.

"Sanka? That crap isn't real coffee. Don't drink that. Make a real pot."

"I don't know how,"

"Time to learn," he said standing up, crossing the room and getting the blue can of Maxwell House out of the pantry.

I watched while my father filled the coffee pot with water. He looked old all of a sudden. He was forty when I was born. He was older than all my friends fathers. His blue eyes seemed paler that morning. I wondered if he'd always had those jowls or did they happen overnight. His hair, what was left of it, was silvery gray. He was a comb-over guy.

"It's got to be very

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