by Robrt L. Pela
If the house caught on fire, I’d grab my French press and run. Oh, and the cats. I’d grab the cats, too. Except that in my horror fantasies, the cats are waiting patiently by the door (even though they’ve never gone outside in their lives) to be whisked away to safety. Along with my French press, without which I cannot wake up in the morning.
I’ve become one of those people who’d rather not interact with the world until his coffee kicks in. Deplorable. If you happen one day to be my houseguest, it’d be better if you didn’t try to strike up a conversation with me while I’m waiting for my early morning coffee water to boil. If you find me in the kitchen grinding a fistful of beans at, say, 7 a.m., it would be best if you went and sat in the breakfast room until I’ve swallowed a cup or two. Just a friendly warning.
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My French press was a gift from my friend Dominick, a sort of “thank you for letting me visit you in France” after he came to see me and Mr. Grossman at our house there one summer. I’ve used it every morning since, and I never share. Of course, no one’s home at our house at 7 in the morning who wants my coffee. Even if I weren’t the only one home, I’ve been told I make my brew “too strong.” And if there were anyone here to hear my reply, it would be, “I didn’t make it for you.”