Today it’s no major event to take a stroll for a block or two and pass a coffee shop. There’s always Starbucks or Wawa or 7-11 that you can enter, and if you have the cash, purchase a cup of the freshly brewed. Or even if you are a bit more adventurous, go for a cappuccino or even a latte, and tell the barista what you would like. (Barista is a fancy term for the person who takes your order. I learned that word when one of the grandchildren after four years of college and a degree from a prestigious university told me that he was working part time as a barista. Well, who can complain? For a minute I was afraid it was connected with the Mafia.)

Perhaps you’d like something made with low fat milk or soy milk or with or without a lot of froth or whipped cream. And then for an extra zing, how about adding some caramel or honey or chocolate or vanilla flavoring.

Of course all this takes some thought and a good bit of cash as well. I know that the last time I handed the barista a five dollar bill, I was told I was a bit short. And I don’t think he was referring to my height.

But today is different from yesterday when I was just growing up. I remember that coffee was something special in our home. Every morning Mama would serve Papa a cup of coffee in his special cup. The coffee was specially brewed each day and the cup was only used for this one “delicacy.” Papa took his own sugar but Mama pored some milk from a glass pitcher. The milk had been skimmed off the top of the bottle of pasteurized milk in the ice box. No such thing as fat-free or skim (Mama would have called it skinny milk) would do. Only the white stuff with all the cholesterol and good taste would suffice.

Then there were certain special occasions when Papa would invite Mama to “take a break” from the cleaning and dusting and washing and go to the Automat or even the Horn and Hardart and have “coffee.” At the Automat there were coffee machines and for a nickel (that’s five cents!) you could get a cup of black coffee, freshly brewed and you could add your milk and sugar. There was no such item as Splenda or Sweet-and-Low or any other artificial sweetener. Everything was the real thing.

If you wanted decaf, you had to ask for Sanka. Then Mama and papa would go to a table, preferably near a window, and sit down “like real people” and savor the brew. If it was a real special event sometimes Papa would even go for a Danish, but the real big ones cost a dime so they shared and there was always a preliminary discussion of whether it should be cheese or apple. Apple usually won out and an extra plate was brought and the cake was carefully cut in two so that each one could have a portion. After the treat was finished, the cups and saucers and used paper napkins were deposited in the appropriate places since there was no waiter-waitress on hand and this also avoided the need for leaving an extra nickel as a tip.

Then they could return home so that Mama could go back to her work and Papa could get ready to take the subway to his job. (That was another nickel.) So it was that coffee, the good old-fashioned kind, occupied a special place. As for tea, well that always came in a glass, and you put the sugar cube in your mouth to add the touch of sweetness, but that’s a story for another day.

And here we are not only on another day but another year. I know that coffee has become nothing unusual and to say that you stopped for coffee (that’s “coffee” without the “a” preceding it) does not raise any eyebrows or take on anything as a special event even though your wallet might be a bit lighter.

But as Thomas Wolfe pointed out, “you can’t go home again” and the Automat is gone as is the Apple Danish for ten cents. So let’s settle for a skinny latte with an extra dollop of caramel and please make it extra hot.