I embraced coffee the summer after high school. The world didn’t yet know 1,200-calorie coffees at $5 a cup. But my drink of choice was not unlike today’s brewed desserts: coffee in instant cocoa.

The college dining hall’s hot chocolate machine made mixing quickie mochas easy. Soon – the history’s hazy – the proportion of chocolate fell and my sludge was going down black, no sweetener.

Taste, although important, is but one of coffee’s delights. Hot and strong enough to stand a fork is best.

Once, in Saudi Arabia, a stranger shared a greenish brew made of slightly roasted beans. Coffee equaled convivial delight.

Coffee ritual adds delight. I set up my drip machine each night before bed, ready to activate at 6 a.m. My first belt at 6:20 is bracing and glorious. My virtuous vice.

I once gave up coffee for six years. A mistake. But an intervention was needed. My habit had grown to eight or more cups daily. Today? Three. A right-sized delight.

I don’t understand people who spurn coffee. Such needless, appalling self-denial. A life without coffee delight.