March 8, 2008 § 1 Comment
The grinder wasn’t working. The coffee beans, whole and promising, were just sitting there. I glanced at the outlet. It was plugged in. The top was seated correctly. My palm began to sweat, nearly slipping off the little machine.
OK, push down, engage the motor. It was that simple. And the grinder’s little blade would spin, the beans would split into hundreds of flavor bombs, I would shake the fresh ground into the gold filter and within minutes, I would hold a mug of my drug of choice. Coffee. Caffeine. Good morning, hello and look out world.
But nothing was happening. I lifted the cover, poked among the beans with my finger, not really paying attention, too distracted by a negative adrenaline rush. I reseated the top, unplugged and replugged the small appliance and prayed quickly before pushing down again to start the grinder.
Action. There. Phew. It was whirling away.
I prepared our two cups, one for HM, one for me, with cream and sugar. Thanks, no fake stuff coffee condiments for us. Coffee is our thing. Our morning pleasure that gets us OUT of bed. This is our dessert later in the day. This is our drive-thru stop if ever we do one. This is our date night at B&N – books, conversation, laughs and a vente cup of SB’s jo.
This is our think drink. (Some of you will remember that ad campaign.)
As a writer, I’d rather have coffee than a cat. I’d rather have coffee than food. I’d rather have coffee and slop a little on the desk as I rush to get a phrase, a word, a sentence typed in as I am sitting and sipping and being there.
Don’t get me wrong. We’re not coffee hos. We don’t drink it at the office (OMG, it’s acid) or at roadside stops (OMG, it’s burned) or establishments where you can see two pots sitting on a burner, half full and stinking like an old geezer’s breath. And we do not drink it out of styrofoam cups or cracked and crappy mugs.
We got coffee class. One day, we might do a world coffee tour.
For now, it’s my jumpstart, my assistant muse, my quick pleasure. Yes, there are coffee rings on various manuscript notes. There are mugs here and there throughout the house that HM patiently collects and brings to the kitchen and some of these morning mug orphans may occasionally need an extra scrubbing to banish a dried bit in the bottom.
Gift cards giving entrance to coffee havens are considered top-of-the-heap treasures. They give permission to pull over to a designated cafe to indulge, sometimes with a mile long description (I’ll have a skim sugar-free 2-pump hazelnut, extra hot venti latte, please) and I have to laugh, thinking of Steve Martin in the LA STORY, a movie pooh poohed by the men in our family but screamingly funny nonetheless when Martin sits down at an LA outdoor bistro to join in with the haute Angelinos in ordering coffee.
And having now burned off the excess rush of early a.m. caffeine, I will proceed to the lesser things like grocery lists, post office needs, and dog food purchases.
BTW, righteous caffeine quitters need not comment.