Every morning before I begin WORTHWHILE and PRODUCTIVE endeavors, there is coffee. The making of coffee is the pause before the leap; a favorite ritual to ring in the day. I use a French press: an elegant beaker gilded with modern steel and made useful by a black c-shaped handle. The filter has to be reassembled each morning as I faithfully wash it after each use. After setting a pot of water on the stove, I turn my attention toward the beans.
Coffee beans have a powerful, velvety aroma so I inhale deeply before I tumble a half cupful of them into a grinder. The penetrating whir of the grinder is an unfortunate necessity, but mercifully short. Rich brown gravel, loosely measured, is spooned into the press – 1 rounded tablespoon. While I wait for the water to boil the day’s tasks conspire to intrude; an unintended consequence of the watched pot. I struggle to preserve the mood but the pot screams just in time, neutralizing any conflict.
I pour bubbling water into the press, stir the coffee, and replace the filter with the plunger poised in the upright position. Some more waiting. I press on the plunger. I make coffee.
In a little cup with a little cream, a cream-cloud churns slowly and overtakes the new coffee, turning it pale brown. Adding a dash of sugar makes it done. The first sip is always the most gratifying because it quenches my anticipation. Subsequent sips echo the promise of the first. When I finish, I begin.