Sunday, October 26, 2008


On a sunny fall Sunday in college, my roomie and I used to get in the old red pickup and drive over to Moscow, Idaho to indulge in one of our favorite treats, Mexican mochas splashed with a liberal dose of cinnamon in a quaint bookstore/coffeeshop, Bucer's. Unfortunately, I can't handle cinnamon anymore except for those few devil-may-care, freewheeling, happy moments where I throw all caution to the wind and ask for just a sprinkle of cinnamon. WHOO!

Back in those days, though, I had no idea the day would ever arrive when I came into my full inheritance of my dad's cinnamon allergy, and I indulged, oh, I did, like a wallowing pig. Bucer's, an old, renovated shop of elderly brick masonry, had gorgeous wooden planked floors and a massive table that seated 64 people that dominated the center of the room. The lighting was dark except by the front store window, and if you sauntered into the back, you could study in a real, live cigar lounge that still had lingering wafts of their signature cherry pipe tobacco you could buy at the front counter, along with a handmade clay pipe featuring a mermaid stolen off some old-time ship. Once in a while they were lucky enough to carry Janus, the powerful two-faced god of the ancient Romans.

On days like today, well into the fall and deep into the school season, brisk, sunny, chilly, with all the leaves falling off the trees in my backyard, I start thinking wistfully about grabbing my old roomie and stuffing ourselves into my old pickup truck, and driving over to Bucer's. There are many coffeeshops, and all are dear to their beloved patrons, but for me there will always, ever, only, be Bucer's.

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