A start.
Oily brown goodness. 
The noise of the grind.
The smell of my mother's first cup, my first cup.
The bubbling on the stove, the plunge of metal, the drip, the push of a button, an order at a cafe.
The bitter, sweet, creamy, hot, acidic, grainy, cold, smooth, velvety, caramel, whatever-my-fancy taste pools in my mouth, transporting me to a country, a time, a state of mind.
My coffee.