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cup fever

Regular readers of this space (ha ha, had to say that. I've only been blogging a couple weeks. I feel like a skinny weight-training tyro, talking in the locker room about reps and lats and delts with a couple of V-shaped super chests) will know that I drink coffee. I can drink it out of anything -- styrofoam, cardboard, bone china, earthenware, hell, once I drank it out of my cupped hands -- but there is a moment at the beginning of most days when I open the cupboard and select a pleasing mug. Pictures or designs are all very well, but for me pleasing has to do with the mugs's shape. Coffee tastes better out of mug the feels good in my hand. As a visitor to a lot of schools, I often receive mugs as presents. They tend to have charming pictures (my current fav is a broody Roman centurion) and slogans (The Search For Knowledge Is Neverending, or, more succinctly, Go Dragons!) but, alas, wide mouths and great chunky handles. My ideal coffee mug is tall rather than wide, straight rather than flared, and thin-handled. My kids used to give me mugs as birthday presents, and their choice back about eight years ago was perfect. I'd get a little tingle when I picked it out of the dishwasher. Ahhh. In a busy klutzy household nothing lasts forever (or even very long) and that tall thin mug is now shards under some landfill project. I've hoped for years for another from the same mould, but haven't found it. I'm drinking today out of an almost straight mug with a picture of a panther's head and an almost thin handle. Almost. Is there a sadder word?

Next time I feel like talking coffee: Tim Horton's dark legacy.


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