It's warm and cozy in here, the smell of coffee brewing on the stove wrapping about us like a cloak. Coffee always brings back fond memories--when I was little, the sweet, bitter aroma would waft through the house, eventually finding its way to my bedroom to tickle my nose. Yawning and stretching, I'd pad sleepily to the kitchen table and watch my parents pour the coffee into their mugs, steam rising lazily. Sometimes, my mother would let me have a sip and the hot liquid would scald my tongue as I swallowed. I didn't mind, though--it made me feel grown up. That seems so long ago.
My mind flits back to the present. There's a peach pie on the table, fresh from the oven. I set out the good Russian china with a clatter, another one of the treasures that was accumulated on my mama's travels. Careful not to spill, the coffee is poured in the dainty cups, and when the cream is added, it makes the dark liquid swirl in milky color. I hand my mom a plate and she slides a gooey, warm piece of pie on it; I scoop some vanilla ice cream on top. The hot and cold mingle together in my mouth, a sweet juxtaposition.
I would be content to have coffee and pie every afternoon.