There is plenty to say about regular coffee, but what about decaf? Why say anything about decaf? It’s anti-coffee culture, not at all Italian, and exists in an unnatural form of something so wonderful that it needs no modification.

This was my perspective until I had a cup of decaf coffee last weekend, my first cup since finding out I was pregnant. I’m coming to the end of week fourteen now and I spent a good seven weeks not thinking about coffee at all. And then suddenly, I missed it.

I missed the ritual, the smell of grinding beans and pouring over hot water. I missed the first sips in the morning, a cup to be enjoyed slowly before my students arrived, or as an accompaniment to the calm of weekend morning rolls and jam. I missed the taste, the feel on my tongue, and I missed looking forward to all of it.

When my partner went out last Saturday morning to buy fresh rolls, I asked him to look for decaf coffee. He came back with a small pack and I delighted in first one, and then two, cups. He laughed at the grin on my face and rapture in my expression and said, “You know there’s still caffeine in it, right?” I do know that, and I wasn’t afraid of it. As it is, I’ve been starting the day with a cup of black tea.

For now, I’m saving the decaf coffee for the weekends, the quiet moments where I can savour it without interruption. Coffee will become part of our shared morning ritual again, and I am already enjoying the anticipation.