A Mug Shot

19/365

Routines bring monotony, but mornings require routines and morning routines require a quality mug. A mug to call your own. I had been using my stainless travel mug, but reading the morning paper (online) isn't the same with a mug made of steel. Like with music, mornings and metal don't mix.

Yesterday I went searching for a new mug. Maine Roasters had nothing worthy (actually, they had nothing). All the mugs at Starbucks were too pretty, perfectly smooth and shiny like a freshly waxed car. If you want a mug that looks loved, you need to buy it that way. There is no breaking in a mug— the brown coffee stain at the bottom doesn't count.

I finally found my mug at the Royal Bean in Yarmouth.  It's sturdy. It sets down like a stein for a refill in a pub. A solid thunk. I could knock you out with it. It's handmade, etched and painted—one of a kind and perfectly imperfect in craftsmanship. The rim is round but not a circle and the inside isn't quite smooth.  It shows where I'd rather be, rolling hills, a mountain, a rising sun, a goofy looking moose and a pair of pine trees. It holds the perfect amount of coffee for a morning. Not too little, I don't want to make a second cup. And not too much, you wouldn't want it to get cold before you can sip it down. It even has a big handle to lift it, not one of those sissy, two-fingers-sticking-out tea mug handles. Or, you can forgo the handle and wrap both hands around the outside; the warming way to drink. In short, it makes coffee taste even better.

If you come to my house, don't touch my mug.

Stayed tuned for the "Oh Shit I Broke My Mug," photo and post coming later this spring.

Side Notes:

I am loving the comments. Keep them coming. Even you Mom!

And an update on my friend Jess (the one with the broken leg): She had her surgery today. Let the healing begin. Get well soon Jess.