is right here. I wasn't very welcoming of her (yes, she's female) when she first moved in. Today, I'm feeling sad about that. I didn't know the absolute treasure that had fallen into my lap.
I sold my old espresso machine at a garage sale years ago and even to this day, am note an imbiber of lattes. Too much milk for this dairy-sensitive girl. I started drinking drip coffee when Hope was born and have rarely looked back. Sweetened coffee concoctions are not my gig- even of the mocha variety. A nice americano (shots of espresso, a little water and a splash of cream) is my drink of choice. There's simply nothing better.
I am not proud to admit, that I've stood in many a coffee line, internally scoffing at the orders around me. "Iced white chocolate mocha, extra syrup, only one shot." "Carmel white chocolate mocha - a splash of hazelnut, extra whip and sprinkles, please." Dairy Queen is just down the road, folks with a nice moooooo-latte waiting just for you. Quiet snobbery - and over coffee, nonetheless.
Lee gave me lessons on our new machine. He was excited - and anxious for me to be equally excited about this wonder. I was detached - nonchalant, even. And I quickly downplayed his claims that I would LOVE this new addition to our kitchen. "It's too big. And I don't drink lattes." Hmph.
The next morning, Hope, who knows how to use our silver bullet, was begging to make some coffee for me. I finally caved. This baby loads it's own beans, grinds and provides the finished product with the touch of a button. It even cleans up after itself (seriously). Hope made three shots, I added a little water and some cream...and voila, Starbucks was in my home. I am in love - and I've yet to look back.
Sunday. The morning of coffee in my home. I've been fighting what feels like the endless bug and was sleeping in a bit on Sunday. Hope brought a cup of coffee up to me. "Mom, I made your shots, but Dad put in steamed milk. I told him you don't drink steamed milk, but he wouldn't listen." I thanked her, waited until she was down the stairs and took a sip. I recoiled. After adding a few more shots, it was passable. Lee and I embarked on a long discussion of steamed milk vs a splash of cream and what really was the difference? Did I mention my husband drinks non-fat mochas? And an occasional moo-latte. Poor guy. :)
This morning, I felt a little sorry for my percolating pot, sitting on the sidelines. I thought about brewing up some black stuff, just for old times' sake. Grinding the beans and cleaning up the mess just seemed like too much trouble - so I didn't. ;(
There aren't many coffee purists in the world, I've come to find. I have quietly kept my vigil - moving through the bean-laden highways alone. I've weathered visits to my Dad's and pots of folgers and "vanilla cinnamon coffee." I've done pods and Vertallinas in Arizona. I've even gone cold-turkey, simply because there wasn't a decent brew to be found. And now, I'm out of the closet.
:) And waiting for my little one to arise and make my second cup of heaven. Maybe she and I will share the love for strong, well-brewed java one day. I can only hope....
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