The Importance of The Coffee Mug

I didn’t mean to stare daggers at my sister-in-law! It really was just a knee-jerk reaction and not a great way to start a week long vacation. Let me explain further to defend myself. It centered around a cup of coffee. Not so much the coffee, as the MUP that holds the coffee, similar to a cup or mug. MUP is a word I coined. Just keep reading. You’ll understand everything shortly. Let's start at the beginning. 

Every summer, my husband’s family vacations together at the North Carolina beach. We arrive late on Saturday afternoon. Grammy Seena has baked the mandatory, melt-in-our-mouth brisket earlier in the day and transported it in the trunk of her car for our first official beach meal.

Every year, I always have the same goal—stay in bed long enough for someone else to brew the first pot of coffee, but not so long that I have to make the second pot. It’s a bit of a dance, you see. If I’m up first, I’m obligated to make it. If I languish in bed too long, the entire pot will be consumed by the early risers. I, then, will be on brew duty. It may not seem like a big deal, but trust me, it is. Firstly, I don’t want to be responsible for a shitty pot of coffee. Secondly (and most important), I want to keep my kitchen duties to a bare minimum while on vacation.

Equally as important as that first pot of joe, is the means to get that black liquid to my lips. The choosing of the beverage holder is of paramount importance. Just think of a classroom setting. Whatever chair you sit in that first day, dibs! Your spot in yoga. The pew at church. You claim it on day one and it is yours by law. (Well, that’s a lie, but still). Same with coffee cups at the beach!  

One never knows what a rental house kitchen will be supplied with—two frying pans or ten, a Keurig or Joe Dimagio’s Mr. Coffee, circa 1974. There is usually a variety of coffee cups and mugs to debate: Plastic (gag me with a spoon), kitsch (absolutely), cup with someone else’s name (no thank you!!) and size (anywhere from 4-16 ounces). The options go on and on—usually.

Day One of the beach vacation, I wake up later than planned, but miraculously dodge making that second pot of coffee. However, to my horror, there are only two choices of drinkware left.  One is a mug. The other a cup. The mug is sturdy with a good utilitarian handle, but it has advertisements on the exterior. Ugly, clearly not acceptable. The cup, on the other hand, is covered with fun geometric, colorful shapes. However, it is smaller by at least three ounces and the handle is quite feminine. I mean, my fingers need to be that of a child to truly not scald myself. 

I survey the family members who got up before me. One has a mug with sailboats and dolphins frolicking. Another has a ten-year-old cup from William-Sonoma I recognize. Then my eyes land on my sister-in-law’s hand. She is comfortably gripping the handle of a lovely (but not too lovely) alabaster pottery cup/mug. It has the best qualities of each type of drinkware. It’s larger than a typical cup, but not so large that one can go swimming in it. It’s sturdy, yet delicate. I could go on, but won’t. Cindy has scored herself a MUP. Dang her! Gracing the top of her CUG, I mean MUP, is a subtle, three-dimensional grapevine laden with grapes. This is when my daggers may have come out. She notices my gaze and tightens her grip. 

Unhappily, I choose the utilitarian mug and peruse the local ad pasted on the outside. Apparently, Frank’s Fish and Tackle on the island has the juiciest worms available. 

Later in the evening, rain comes—a welcome respite. I reach for my book and put water on for tea. I spy Cindy’s coffee MUP in the cupboard. Truth is, it is way more appropriate for tea than coffee.  But who am I to judge? I pour hot water over my white pomegranate tea bag and go hide in my room. In the middle of the night I wake and look at the LED clock, but Cindy’s MUP is blocking it. I rouse myself and carry it to the kitchen. I wash and dry it. The rightful owner can claim it tomorrow morning for her coffee. 

Dibs are dibs after all, even if unspoken.