To My Coffee Maker, With Love
I read a great article at ‘is it bedtime yet?’ that was a love letter to shapewear. It inspired me to start a series on things (not people) I love. Today, it is my coffee maker. You have no idea the depths of my love for this one. No. Idea.
Dearest Coffee Maker,
You complete me. Not in the stupid movie-type way, but in a real way. I can not imagine a day without you.
I wish I could. The stereotype of the mother so desperate for coffee throughout the day is a bit cliché. The memes about drinking coffee in the shower, although they give me a good laugh, are making me feel ordinary. But you. You make me feel special and needed. We need each other. Isn’t that beautiful?
You demand I add water, beans, filters, and power. I need you to give up your dark, bitter spoils in return.
You call for me to clean you and buy your supplies. I need you to start my day with a hot cup of rich, high octane.
You beg me to understand that sound. You know the sound of when your bean hopper is empty, and the grinder is grinding air? I know that sound. I get you.
The satisfaction I get when I fill that compartment full of espresso-rich goodness is a moment I savour. Not unlike the six moments in a day I savour your C8H10N4O2
Nobody in the house needs me like you do. Water, beans, cleaning, and rinsing. Daphne and Shaggy don’t need my constant love and devotion like you do. They do their rinsing without my support, thank goodness. I am like a french press to them. They fill me only when needed then push me out of the way and strain all the goodness and leave the waste behind. You really need me. You wouldn’t do that to me.
Even the dog, Scooby, can wait for a convenient time for his walk. He doesn’t blink at me with his LED display telling me his needs until they are met. He just sleeps at my side until I decide to acknowledge his demands.
Mister has, long since, stopped needing my constant, everyday attention. Now he is more of ‘how about tonight?’ on our 20+ years of marriage, maintenance schedule.
Since you have remained nameless to date, I feel that the last and best thing I can do for you is to acknowledge your existence and give you a name. So, from today on, you will be my Baby. And, to honour you as Peter Frampton would have, I give you a poem (OK, it is a lyric, but who is mincing words instead of beans now?).
Oh, Baby, I love your way, everyday
Wanna tell you I love your way
Wanna be with you night and day, yeah
Your indentured servant,