I am not a coffee connaisseur. I will drink just about any swill that calls itself "coffee," short of the god-awful pretender that comes out of bus station and hospital machines (do any of those still exist?). What I am is an artist of coffee drinking. I don't need much. My everyday ritual is home-brewed Maxwell House in this handsome cup; classical music on the radio; my walked-and-fed corgi resting beside my comfy chair; the New York Times. The cherry on that sundae is having my husband home to discuss why no one asks us how to fix the world. Then there's the special-occasion coffee-drinking: walking in winter on the Coney Island boardwalk with a paper cup and a hot knish. Catching up with an out-of-town friend among the tapestry pillows and folk art at Java Girl. Commuting into Manhattan from New Jersey on the Seastreak ferry, waking up by standing in the spray off the wake at the back of the boat. Coffee is more than a stimulant: it's a key element in the civilized life. Don't down it mindlessly while racing from one place to another. Sit, sip, and relax.