Wrangler Dani

For as long as I can remember, my mom has made a strong pot of coffee every morning, and drank it religiously, with only a splash of milk to temper every steaming cup. Even as a kid, I knew where it came from – our grandparents, her parents, were seemingly never without a strong cup of coffee, even in the afternoon. When they got together, my uncle, aunts, mom and grandparents would all sit happily around the worn wooden kitchen table in the home my grandfather built, drinking cup after cup of strong coffee, laughing uproariously at some memory or good-natured tease.

Coffee, even though I hated the taste until about my junior year of highschool, has always been synonymous with family, tradition, the beautiful early-morning rite of pause and gratitude, of comfort and home. Now, when I’m at my parent’s house, we’re creating our own tradition of morning coffee and shared laughter around a kitchen table – I like to imagine the image that will leave someday in the minds of our kids – associating the smell of coffee and the sound of laughter with security, family and home.