My Minnesota buddy, Michelle, has forever ruined my first morning cup of Joe/Java.
She claims she was attempting to open my eyes to the reality of coffee as it should be. Instead she has set me to coveting and grousing.
Never again will I breathe in the aroma of the first morning Folgers and sigh with contentment.
Michelle’s java Pandora’s Box?
French Press coffee. With REAL cream I might add.
But French Press is only done properly with freshly-roasted, just-ground beans.
(I hope I don’t get electrocuted as I drool into the keyboard. )
The time involved, the cost involved. I’ll need to get up an hour earlier each morning.
I currently have a search window open to all the possibilities of French Press coffee makers. Hmmm, for anywhere from $9.99 to $69.95 I could purchase my own.
But then where will I find the coffee? Do I need to grow my own coffee tree, cultivate, pick and roast my own beans? Which variety of tree will I get? Hazelnut, my husband’s favorite flavored coffee, or maybe the always popular egg nog or snickerdoodle for Christmas coffee celebrations.
I’d ask Michelle, but she’s currently away from technology and roughing it in the Minnesota wilds.
Without electricity she can’t grind her beans. No French Press for her, either.
I feel better.
Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.