In Praise of the Second Cup

The uninitiated believe that work begins at the desk. We know better. It begins at the kettle, and it is not to be rushed. To sit down to a demanding task without first attending, fully, to the ritual of coffee is to arrive at a formal occasion improperly dressed.

The first cup, we concede, is merely functional — a civility owed to the morning. It is the second cup that concerns the scholar. The second cup is not thirst; it is philosophy. It is the mind announcing, with great seriousness, that it would like a little longer at the threshold before it commits to anything so final as beginning.

There is a discipline to it. One does not simply make the second cup; one considers it, weighs it against the work, and elects — freely, and after due deliberation — to make it anyway. The kettle is filled with intention. The wait is spent rehearsing, in the abstract, the very task one is postponing. No time is lost. The work is being done, only elsewhere, and without the inconvenience of doing it.

Critics, who are legion and rarely well-rested, call this stalling. We call it preparation. The finest ideas of this University have all arrived in the same place: at the counter, cup in hand, at the precise moment the work was about to be, at last, attempted.

The third cup we do not discuss in polite company. But it, too, has its defenders.