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If you drink coffee, you’ve probably got a favorite kind, way to drink it, and cup to drink it in. And you probably have a penchant for a certain coffee house, with their particular blends, drinks, mugs, atmosphere or even their coffee gift baskets! There are so many coffee shops in the U.S. but coffee drinkers are usually loyal to just a few. Depending on where you live, you may prefer a local coffee shop near your house where you know everyone seated around you or you may choose to frequent a larger chain that allows you to be a silent visitor in the crowd.

Some of the most popular coffee houses in the U.S. are known for their ambiance, their free Wi-Fi, and their especially delicious coffee. You can go and sit for the price of a cup of coffee for the whole day if you like.

Starbucks leads the pack with a whopping 8,000 coffee houses around the United States alone. The coffee giant offers a funky atmosphere and every kind of coffee drink you could ever hope to concoct. The Seattle-based company has been producing coffee that America loves for close to 40 years. They started out as one tiny coffee shop. You can visit the original location in Seattle, as it’s still open. It’s small and dark and nothing like what you would expect a coffee King to have started out from.

If you live anywhere on the East Coast, you’ll know Dunkin Donuts. They have 6,400 locations in the U.S. and more across the world. They are known for the coffee that “America runs on.” They have six or seven locations often in just a small city.

The coffee house that comes in as third, according to popular opinion, is Caribou Coffee. They have 322 coffee houses. This number seems dwarfed by the huge number of Starbucks around. But it’s still a respectable number. Caribou has built its brand on being eco-friendly. They offer coffee that is in keeping with the Rainforest Alliance and Fair Trade. Their coffee houses have a welcoming atmosphere that makes you want to stay all day.

Coffee houses have changed the way that America drinks their coffee. Now everyone gathers to work on their laptops, catch up with friends, read, or just relax. Before there were national coffee houses, people sat in diners or privately owned restaurants.

It’s hard to imagine America without its coffee houses. They’ve become such a fixture. They’re where we stop for our morning coffee before work, where we head to at lunch time, and where we stop in during the evening for a cool pick me up from a simple coffee scoop.

Coffee lovers may have different thoughts on which brand of coffee is best, but all agree that the coffee house is the place to be yourself. Whether it’s catching up on college homework or writing a report for work, Americans can’t survive without their lattes and laptops. Mobile technology has had to be invented to keep up with America’s demand to work at coffee shops and away from home.

Coffee is now being touted as a beneficial addition to any healthy diet. But even if it weren’t, there’s no stopping the army of coffee drinkers who storm coffee houses daily for their fix of life-giving caffeine. Take it away and what would America run on? It might be a scary scene!

Related Articles:

• Low Calorie Choices At Your Favorite Coffee Shops
• The Great Debate: Coffee vs. Tea
• The Most Popular Commercial Coffee Brands in the U.S.

A perfect sentiment for any occasion - or no occasion at all - is making someone breakfast in bed!  You don't have to be a master chef to pull this off.  Here are some tips on creating a great surprise for someone you care about.

1. Plan Ahead - Think about what things they love to eat.  Are they really into omelets filled with cheese and ham, or maybe they love fruit-topped waffles instead?  Either way, create a meal plan and make sure you have all the ingredients on hand.  Some things may be able to be prepared the day before like mixing the ingredients for an egg bake or cutting up fresh fruit.  You don't want to spend too much time in the kitchen the morning of the surprise!

2. Setting the Scene - Make sure you have a good way to serve the breakfast.  A large serving tray works best.  To make things really special use your best dishes and linen napkins.  A fresh-cut flower in a small vase is also a nice added touch.

3. Buy pre-made - If pastries are on your menu, but you don't have a lot of time to bake, you can purchase them from your favorite bakery.  Things like muffins and scones can be bought fresh and served with your breakfast.

If the idea of breakfast in bed appeals to you but your loved one lives far away, we offer breakfast baskets and muffin gifts that would just as nicely send your message of care!  Check out our selection, including those below, at All About Gifts & Gift Baskets.

When I married my husband, he slept with his arms crossed over his chest. It seemed to me he was protecting his heart; it had been wounded and broken so many times. During his waking hours, he let his guard down. But, when sleeping, he still needed to protect himself, lest some threatening force invade and attack, catching him unawares.

Joe is an early riser. Typically he gets up before I do, quietly slips out of our bedroom, exercises, makes coffee, reads the paper, and then wakes me up. Rarely do I awaken before him. But recently I did. I marveled at how peaceful he looked. He was lying on his side, one hand underneath the pillow, the other just hanging down.

His chest was wide open, not needing his protection because he finally felt safe, open, and welcoming of me. In his sleep, he reached over and wrapped his arms around me. Like two spoons in a drawer, we lay there, side by side, a perfect fit. He let me in and I was part of him, safe, next to his heart.

He’s opened his heart. He trusts I won’t break it.

Miles and miles of land separate my mother and me. The long-distance phone calls and emails cannot compare to being able to see her whenever I please. So when it comes time to ship off a gift, I want her to feel as if I am standing in front of her, delivering it myself.

As the month of June neared, I prepared for one of my most intense gift-giving times of the year. Besides Father’s Day, the month brought both of my parent’s birthdays, as well as their anniversary. By the middle of the month, I would have satisfied 3 out of 4 big dates on the calendar, leaving my mother's birthday to focus on. This year, I tried to think of gifts she would not only use, but also find comfort, delight and relaxation. She recently quit smoking and I wanted to keep her on track and make sure she was surrounded by welcomed distractions.

My mother always starts her day with a cup of coffee and by night, falls asleep beside another. I went to the gourmet food  gifts section of one of my favorite stores and began to browse the coffee aisle. There were many tempting flavors to choose from, including Raspberry to Chocolate Mint, as I relentlessly read all of the bags. In the back of the bunch, one particular item rewarded me for my uncompromising focus.

If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again- sometimes the perfect gift finds me even when I least expect it. The day after Mother’s Day, my mother and I were having a conversation about her visit with my grandmother. She brought over her usual gift, accompanied by coffee and biscuits. By the end of her visit, she said she left with a delicious taste upon her lips, as they had sipped several shots of Kahlua. I know the doctor mentioned that alcohol may provide comfort for my grandmother’s arthritis, but for me, it was hard to swallow that my Nana and mother were sitting in her living room, consuming alcoholic beverages on Mother’s Day. I’ve never seen either one of them drink in my life.

So when I pulled the Kahlua-flavored coffee from behind all of the other interesting flavors, I felt I had struck gold. It was the last and only bag of its kind. I wasn’t looking for that particular flavor; didn’t even know it existed, but the warmth and happiness that overcame me at that moment was overwhelming. I couldn’t wait until she opened her gift.

On her birthday, I called early because she always waits for me before opening gifts. I could hear the tear of the box and crinkling of the wrapping paper. She was quite pleased with what she found inside. The gift brought her back to the Mother’s Day Kahlua, which then turned into a flood of teenage and college memories I had no idea existed. Although, I was miles and miles away, the coffee talk made me feel much closer, providing me with much-needed satisfaction and comfort.

My Dad always said to us that he didn’t need any gifts. He told us that he was the man who had everything! What a lovely thought considering he had 5 stepchildren, and a new born baby gift (me) to provide for.

He was an Abalone diver by profession, this particular year his boat had been tipped over by a shark. My father’s boat had been ruined, and he was lucky to have escaped with his life. My father was left with no boat and no income. He had begun working as a deck hand for a friend who was also an Abalone diver. Mom and Dad made some extra money by selling abalone shells as ashtrays to tourists, to buy Christmas presents for all of us kids.

Times were tough and we ate a lot of fish. Although through this ordeal, our Dad remained cheerful and never once let it get to him. His usual saying about being the man, who had everything, was said at Christmas time. When his stepchildren tried to glean some type of hint on what he might like for Christmas. My stepsister who was well accustomed to hearing this, set out to find the perfect gift for the man who had everything!

This could not have been a very easy task, considering her budget was below $2. She never mentioned another thing about finding a gift idea, and wouldn’t tell anyone even our Mom what she had found. No matter how hard they all begged.

Christmas morning finally rolled around, and everyone was exchanging gifts. When it was my stepsister’s turn to give her gift to Dad she produced a small longish rectangular box, rapped in red paper. My father carefully tore away the paper to reveal a black box with gold writing on the top, it said “For the man who has everything” when my father opened the lid there was a little brush in there, a lot like a makeup brush only smaller. Inside the top of the lid it said, “for the man who has everything, a belly button brush.”

My stepsister not only found a unique gift for our Dad, but she also managed to make light of a hard time. Gifts don’t have to be large or expensive to make an impact on others. My parents still to this day talk about the belly button brush, for the man who has everything. It is displayed on their mantelpiece with pride, still to this day, this occurred over 25 years ago.

If you know a man who has ‘everything’ ask him if he has a belly button brush. After that Christmas my father really was the man who had everything.

He stared at her, and then suddenly bent double. This was a much worse pain than any so far.

She was helpless. Nothing in the world could do to relieve it, except to get him into that hospital. She clutched him to her, hardly noticing what she was doing, and smoothed his hair. Edward, Edward, help me, her heart cried. Edward where are you? And like her son, in that moment, she felt despair settle so heavily on her and she was sure that her husband was no longer there to help her.

Suddenly the boy straightened up. “All right, it’s gone. It wasn’t too bad,” he lied, and even managed a faint watery grin. “Pack my bags then, and let’s go.”

She felt dizzy with relief. Whether she had capitulated before the force of her arguments, or whether it was the chastising warning of that last pain, she couldn’t say. She didn’t stop to think.

He watched her lug a case out from one of the cupboards and starts to put his things in, not so quickly or neatly as he had seen her pack for summer holidays, but she didn’t make bad speed.

“Shall I put some books in for you to read, Peter? Which would you like to take?” and she ran her eye over the brilliant backs of the covers. Adventure in the desert, the jungle, the town, and the country; adventures on the sea, below the sea, up mountains, in planes. War books and animal adventures. His world, from the escape from the safety and security of the room.

He surprised her again; cold, sharp, surprise settled on her.” I don’t want any. I don’t want them anymore. Throw them out. No, burn them-don’t give them away. I don’t want other boys to-“

He broke off and turned his head away.

“But, Peter, you’ve always liked adventure books.”

“They’re not true. There silly. The only people who get killed in them are the “bads”-“goods” in those books all get through their adventure and come home and tell their families all about it. My father wasn’t a “bad”. But he didn’t come home.”

She finished the packing in silence and went done to phone the hospital and to tell her daily woman what was going on. Mrs. Walters pointedly removed the cigarette from her mouth and dropped ash on the floor and just listened.

“In hospitable? Poor little soul.”

“Don’t talk like that Mrs., Walters, he might hear you. I’ve had such a trouble to persuade him, but he’s agreed to go quietly, and get it over with, and I think it’s the best thing. He had a very bad pain this morning.”

Mrs. Walters clucked sympathetically and put the cigarette back in her mouth. “Well. What I say is, I do admire you, and the you’re taking it, Mrs. Farley. If it were my boy, I’d be off with my head with worry, not knowing if I’d ever see him again...”

“Of course, I’ll see him again,” Claire said crossly, but it wasn’t any use arguing with Mrs. Walters. She did keep the place clean, but she firmly believed that her ideas were right and everyone else was staggeringly wrong. Claire left her and want upstairs to ready.

The Milkman came. Peter went to the window and looked down. He hadn’t gotten his horse anymore which Peter thought was a pity. The milk float was a mistake. It whirled miserably, and it was so slow that the other traffic on the road made all the usual noises of frustration until it could be overtaken. No one likes the milk floats.

But it reminded Peter of the holidays when the milkman had brought his boy round to collect the empties. The boy had been a year older than Peter, and had boasted about his visit to the hospital to have his verracus burnt off. More pain than torture in the Middle Ages, the milkman’s boy had said firmly. Peter decided that it might be a good idea to dust go down and have a word with the boy’s father just to check [without disbelieving his mother’s story, of course but she was the sort of pretty, distracted-looking young woman who often get things wrong.] If that hospital was a Christmas hospital and whether it was likely that they’d have fun there, which he personally which he could never bring to believe.

He crept downstairs. The pain had eased up a lot. He didn’t waste time worrying about why it should do that, but began to plan his verbal opening. The Milkman liked to joke and tease. He would start off by getting in quickly. “Hello, hello, hello, here’s a young gentleman with a posh speech on his tongue to make, I can tell at a glance!” the milkman was fond of saying when Peter was about, and it was irritating. Peter knew he must start talking first. Should he ask bluntly: “Is the Joseph and Mary really a Christmas Hospital?” but come to think of it sounded silly. The Joseph and Mary began to carry weight on its own; the sound about it that is at once suggestive. It might perhaps be better to find out if it was really called that, or if someone else told his mother the wrong thing.

The milkman was being quiet for once, Peter discovered. Mrs. Walters was doing all the talking “Stood out against going into the hospital all this time he has, poor little devil, but his mother’s got him to agree at last.”

“Yes, well-“the milkman said, hoping to bring in the story about his boy and the verracus.

Mrs. Walter’s wasn’t going to have that. “What I say is, shall we ever see him again? Not a bad kid, that one. I said as much to his mother. If it was me, I said I’d be asking my self if he’d ever come out again. Well I mean to say-hospitals are all alike. Once they get you in, you never come out. Look at my Perce-“

Pierce Walters was a tall thin, weedy man who came to do the odd jobs. He had been by way of being a hero to Peter, because he had the bare minimum of tools which he treasured, and he kept them in a shabby old bag he carried as if it contained gold. Out of the most unlikely bits of wood and rubbish, that no one else wanted, Mrs.’s Walter’s late Husband, had fashioned things, slowly with a care that had been born of waning energy, but the little boy hadn’t known this. He hadn’t known that Percy Walters’ days had been numbered then. He only knew that he had liked him and that he had been persuaded to go into the hospital and had never came out.

He didn’t stop to hear of the other similar cases.

Mrs. Walters had known and was loudly citing for the milkman’s benefit, nor that would he have realized that they had been hopeless cases from the state. He only knew that Mrs. Walters was saying roundly that he would never come back to this dear house again, never see his father when he came home…if his father ever came home. And Mrs. Walters was speaking in that loud, confident, ringing tone of one who was sure of her facts.

He turned to go upstairs again, but the pain came on again and this time he went grey with it. His Mother came down and at the same time heard the taxi pull up at the door.

“Are you ready, darling? Do you think that you could help let you get ready? We really ought to be getting going.”

He looked at her, his faced pinched and grey and somehow much older. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” He asked of her, and to her fevered imagination, it was the voice of Edward, lighter weight, of course, but the same tone, the same choice of words.

“Why do you say that darling? I thought we agreed that it was for the best,” his Mother cried. Her distress communicated itself to him and he believed he was lost, and that she knew he was lost, but there was nothing else she could do.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said and he let her help him. Wrapped in a grim frozen silence borne of grief and despair, a quiet, nagging fear that was worse than the noisy terror of a normal frightened child. Peter Farely allowed himself be conveyed to the Christmas Hospital.