Remember math-class word problems? One train leaves Chicago traveling east at 40 mph, another leaves Boston an hour later at 60 mph, which one arrives first?..and so on. I’d put that painful curriculum behind me. Until yesterday.

That’s when I learned that when two cups of frozen strawberries and a mashed banana are placed in an uncovered blender and the PUREE button is hit, the berries will arrive at the kitchen ceiling a full 5 seconds before the banana.

Coffee, as you know, is no longer a beverage, it’s more like a drug cocktail. That sweet latte is two parts caffeine, heavy Vitamin D, high enough glycemic index to rocket it into your needy system.

The fact that most of us know so much about where our coffee originates tells you something. Usually we’re the sort of people who wear sneakers made in a Chinese sweatshop, while standing in line for a union rally.

Actually, the “Fair-trade” coffee label smacks a bit of the “Pro-life” label — both are marketing genius. You can proclaim where you stand AND cast the opposing side as evil — “Unfair trade” and “Anti-Life.”

We bean-Philistines have our conceits too. I take that self-delusional pride in drinking plain coffee, pleased to be the only one in the cafe who can order in two words: “Medium drip.”

I’m guessing that some time in the future I will be asking for “Hot, soy-free coffee in a cup” because the norm will be cold, soy-infused stuff that they pour into a vessel you bring in. If you leave your cup in the car, they’ll grudgingly give you one, just the way that stern checker does at Whole Foods, the one who acts like that paper bag is made from the flesh of newborns.

I do love the stuff though. I started drinking coffee as a kid. The story goes that at age 3, I threw my bottle across the room and refused to touch another drop of milk unless it was completely disguised. I don’t remember ever drinking it; even a whiff of straight milk makes me gag. Today such infant behavior would be cause for medical and psychiatric alarm; in my childhood home it was written off as a sign of a discerning palate.

My mother, a Southerner who thought Coke was a food group and wouldn’t allow me to eat anything with mayo during the summer because Yankees didn’t understand refrigeration, came up with the brilliant solution of allowing me coffee, heavily laced with whole milk.

I didn’t like it on an empty stomach, delicate flower that I was. So, coffee was usually a dinner beverage. No one ever remarked on its stimulant properties, but they might have something to do with my witnessing so much of Johnny Carson’s TV heyday.

A favorite memory:

Age 11 or so, sitting at a Howard Johnson’s lunch counter with my mother. I order a well-done hamburger, politely adding: “Coffee, regular, please.” (Back then in Massachusetts, “regular” meant a lot of cream added.)

The waitress does a double take and coos: “Wouldn’t you like a nice glass of milk?”

My mother, glaring, says in the firmest of voices: “She said coffee.”

Like most daily-newspaper journalists (or in my case, former), I can rustle up a small layer of expertise about a large number of subjects. There are a few fascinating subjects on which I am personally expert. (“Mile wide, inch deep” is the less flattering way to characterize this trait.)

When I see articles on “my” subjects, I always wish the reporter had called me first. To wit:

The New York Times piece headlined “The Little Voice Inside Your Twinge.” This article, in the “Personal Best” health section commiserates with active folks who don’t know how to evaluate pain:

“MAYBE the problem is that it is hard to understand what your body is saying.’Listen to your body’ is always a tough one,’ said Keith Hanson, a coach who directs the Hansons-Brooks Distance Project, which recruits talented distance runners and supports them while they train full time…’There are several aches and pains that you can run through,” Mr. Hanson said, “and others that need some down time.”

In all due respect, Coach, you’re off base. There is one simple rule here, and you can quote me:

“Any twinge can be the start of something very dangerous,” warned Hartnett. “Best to repair to the couch with a book until you’re sure it’s gone.”

Another one I spotted, also in the NYT, is “The 10-Ingredient Shopping Trip,” in which Tara Parker-Pope ably chronicled foodie Mark Bittman’s plan to get five days of meals out of a 10-item list. Here’s his 10:

1. Chicken breasts (4 boneless)
2. Bacon (1/2 pound)
3. Shrimp (1 pound)
4. Spinach (1 pound)
5. Tomatoes (6)
6. Ginger
7. Onions
8. Asparagus (2 pounds)
9. Button mushrooms (1 pound)
10. Loaf of good country bread

Parker-Pope isn’t at fault here. Bittman means well, but this list is simply not accurate. It should read:

1. Loaf of “Dave’s Killer Bread”
2. Case of caffeine-free Diet Pepsi
3. Case of kid-size chocolate-brownie Clif bars
4. Quart of almond butter
5. Package of Laughing Cow Lite Cheese wedges
6. Bag of apples
7. Package of frozen Morningstar Farms Tomato & Basil Pizza Burgers
8. Package of Trader Joe’s dark-chocolate covered raisins
9. One enormous garnet yam
10. One enormous can of albacore tuna in water

Anything else? Just give me a call. Glad to help.