There are a few Arabica trees in mother’s garden where as a child I remember father picked ripe beans, dried, and roasted them himself. Then, when the garden was wilder there were more of the trees. So I could say that I grew up with coffee although it was only father who drank the brew and in copious amounts too. At one point, in the hidden part of my young mind I wondered how cupfuls a day didn’t give him a heart attack as I heard it did from broadcast media. Now, aside from knowing broadcast media thrive on half-baked truths, I know it was because father’s beans were organic though I refer to them as wild. Plus he had always had it black and the sugar, unprocessed. But while I grew up with the brew, I didn’t taste a cup until five or six years ago. By that time, and ironically, there were only a few trees left in my parents’ front yard and home preparation of the beans was rare. In fact, how crass, we now get it in stores. I think we younger ones should start and continue the DIY tradition. In an age when coffee is elevated to the level of art, there’s an incentive to do so.