Coffee
So much depends on a cup of coffee, enjoyed in a moment of quiet intent, a moment as good as a comma or semicolon. My espresso machine, which had always grumbled and hissed, developed a leak in her old age. To handle the drip, drip, drip I employed towels, hand pumps and trays just as I deployed buckets everywhere in our last apartment during a downpour. A hassle, but I’d never replace her with a model more stylish. I like to baby her; she still makes a great cup.
My kitchen is almost never this quiet. It’s normally a whirling choreography of scrubbing, opening and shutting, loading and unloading. The microwave chimes and keeps chiming. Little Sophie runs too quickly and suddenly meets the floor; she turns to catch her daddy’s eye a moment before bursting into crocodile tears.
The spell is broken the moment someone else wakes.
Tags:coffee espresso