The Art of the Press.

Morning coffee, courtesy

Coffee is as much about the ritual as it is about the flavor in our house. And the ritual is mine. All mine. It’s clockwork. The beans. The grind. The maker. The cream. The sweetener. The color. The “ahhhhh, coffeee” first sip. So, when I came home from a business trip to find out Chris had chucked the coffee maker in a fit of passion? Yeah, my own fit of passion ensued! “What do you mean we  no longer have a coffee maker? It was here when I left!”

Granted, his fit was warranted. The hard water where we live basically killed the machine. Just mucked it up. Too many minerals to fight. It gave up the ghost — and he helped it (I’m still finding bits of that coffee maker in odd corners of the condo… something tells me it must have been a very “dramatic toss” into the garbage). But to come home and find not only my ritual, but the actual machine gone? Brutal. Just brutal.

So, we opted for a French Press. “It’s such good coffee,” everyone stated. “The flavor is amazing.” Even our Starbucks barista boasted he started his day with French Press coffee. Simple. Clean. Authentic. Perfect. NOT! Who are they kidding? The process is a PAIN IN MY ARSE!

The evil alternative to my coffee maker...

My mornings are now completely off kilter. My deceased coffee maker? Simple. You add coffee, press a button, go about your morning, and the coffee magically appears when you come back to the kitchen. If I’m feeling sassy? I program it the night before and wake up to the aroma of fresh-brewed java — just waiting for my final caress of cream and sugar. Near bliss… But with the French Press? I boil the water (6 minutes), add coffee, add water, let it “brew” (4 minutes), press the damn thing (slowly and painfully) and finally get that first sip (2 minutes), and you’ve had to stand around “waiting” for roughly 12 minutes! You heard me, 12 minutes! That may sound like nothing to some of you, but that means I could have showered, could have fed the bird and changed his cage paper, could have fed the dogs and changed their pads, ironed a shirt and emptied the garbage… You get my point. And now I still have to rinse the grounds, flush them down the toilet (god knows the disposal can’t handle them), and load the thing into the dishwasher. Miserable. The bliss of that first sip is so tainted now, I may as well have burned the coffee and added sour milk!

A French Press requires commitment. You have to be INVOLVED in the process. Who has time to be INVOLVED in the process at 6 in the morning? Who WANTS to be involved in the process at 6 in the morning? Not me, that’s for sure. I JUST WANT MY COFFEE AT SIX IN THE MORNING! The other morning, I let my feelings fly like Chris let my beloved coffee maker fly. Fierce, forceful and free… Something tells me our coffee maker is on order. One can only hope. And in this house? Hope floats!


2 thoughts on “The Art of the Press.

  1. It isn’t on order yet… not until we move back to a place where the water is not so hard that the dog bowl is covered in calcium deposits, and where high speed Internet is available, and where you can go for a drink or something to eat or to Target and not drive 30 minutes. Yup, the city. On that day, Alan will find a shiney new Nespresso machine waiting to dispense his addiction after inserting a capsule and pressing a button.

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