Grateful for more than just the coffee
I recently (as in last week) started a gratitude practice. Several times a day, particularly when my mind starts down a wayward path, I silently list the things I’m thankful for. What comes to mind changes depending upon the time of day. But there’s one thing that always seems to make the list, no matter when I do this little exercise.
Coffee. I am eternally grateful for coffee.
I know my relationship with it ticks all the boxes of an addiction. But it’s one I’ve made my peace with.
What I’m learning through the gratitude practice is that it’s not just certain people and things that bring me joy. It’s everyday, run-of-the-mill experiences.
So, yes, I love coffee. But I also love the ritual of making it.
A symphony of motion
One day I think I’ll look back on my morning coffee-making ritual as one of life’s great gifts. Like the refrain in a beautiful, meandering tune.
Today I’m 26 and newly married, now I’m 34 with little kids running circles around the kitchen, and suddenly I’m 48 and the dog needs to go out. All the while, I’m moving methodically through this everyday routine, over and over again.
I’m not ashamed: Coffee is the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. And this time of year, when it’s zero degrees outside and the floor is cold under my feet, it’s the thing that motivates me to crawl out from under the duvet and shuffle, bleary-eyed, to the kitchen.
First movement
I grab the extra special electric tea kettle gifted to me by my brother-in-law—it heats the water to just the right temp for whatever hot beverage you’re making, fill it with water cold from the well, and click two buttons: “Start” and “French Press.”
I’ve tried dozens of coffee-making techniques over the years. Most of them require way more patience than I have at 7 a.m. I don’t burn my coffee with the French Press; I can’t break it, because, ah ha, it’s stainless steel; and it makes more than a cup at a time, which is critical.
Second movement
As the tea kettle begins to gurgle, I reach under the cabinet and pull out one of the six bags of coffee beans I keep stashed away, because I never, ever want to run out. I open the bag and bury my nose deep inside. Not only do I love the smell of coffee beans, I read somewhere that just smelling coffee helps the brain wake up. I have no idea whether this is true, but it brings me great pleasure.
A few years ago, my coffee grinder broke. After much research, I settled on a grinder with conical burrs, which is a buzzword if you’re into coffee. So I remove the lid from my fancy schmancy grinder, pour my beans into the canister, and twist the dial. About that time the tea kettle is beeping at me, so I grab the French Press from the drying rack—because that’s where it lives—and scoop 10 heaping tablespoons of the freshly “burred” grounds into the silver carafe.
Third movement
While holding the French Press steady in my left hand, I reach to my right and grab the beeping tea kettle. I pour the almost-boiling water into the French Press, then pivot on my heels to nab a wooden spoon from the pitcher on the stovetop. I stir gently.
I love watching the grounds swirl in the water.
Fourth movement
Ever so gently, I place the lid on top of the carafe, and I wait.
For the next 10 minutes or so, I scoot around the house taking care of morning things—getting dressed, brushing my teeth, feeding the dog. All the while, I’m anticipating that moment when I walk back into the kitchen and push the plunger down to separate the grounds from the coffee.
Fifth movement
From where the French Press sits, near the kitchen window, I take four long strides to the cupboard where I have a choice of about 20 different mugs. Which one will it be? This is important. I always go with my gut; today it’s the bright yellow ceramic beer stein my parents bought in Germany over 50 years ago. It’s more cheerful than I feel.
I open the fridge, just to my left, and grab the half-and-half; it always goes into the mug first. Back I go to the far side of the kitchen where I ceremoniously pour my first cup of coffee, which is never the last of the day but always the best.
Then, when I remember to do it, I plant my feet on the floor—the final movement. Cradling the mug in my hands, just beneath my nose, I take a deep breath and watch the steam rise. I sip slowly; I look out the window; I ground myself in the day.
Here I am again.