There is for me a red-faced shame in indulgence, whether it’s buying razors, actually peeing alone, or vanity. The one thing I am absolutely unapologetic about is my joy derived from coffee. Thinking about it, drinking it, making it, smelling it it all just really does it for me.
Mornings when I come downstairs and it is already brewing? There are no words, it is Christmas morning at age 7. Days when I make it myself? Almost as magical. The other morning I was preparing to brew some magic and as I turned on the water and held the carafe beneath the flow I yawned. Standing barefoot and blind I grabbed the canister from the cabinet. Turning to set it down I felt more than heard it happen. A crack. A lightning rod of destruction.
I think I might have shrieked, “I’m melting.” I prepared to unleash a rainbow of words to illustrate my devastation when Sean rode in on what I am pretty sure was a white steed and did this: