Ode to my French Press | National Coffee Day

Licking steam from my cup, the air wants a taste too.  Coffee from my French press enchants me in a way coffee from a drip machine never did.

The motor of the coffee grinder runs for four seconds, crunching and chopping my fair trade, organic coffee beans into a course powder.  I invert the grinder to tap-tap every last ounce from the bottom.  Carefully (for it's filled to the brim), I pour the grounds into the glass cylinder of my Bodum.  I am creating, experimenting, and brewing coffee all at the same time.  My aqua Le Creuset tea kettle starts to scream, so I flip the spout cap up to let the steam escape, remove the kettle from the burner, turn off the stove and pour the bubbling purified water onto the mound of ground beans.  Meticulously, I attempt to douse each morsel with water until my beaker is full.  

Enter the wooden spoon, dipping and mixing to saturate the water with the coffee's nuances.  I top it off with more water, the coffee foaming to the brim, and wait.  What to do with the next 4-10 minutes?  The dishes? Meditate? At this point I usually prepare a cozy place for myself to enjoy the coffee when it's ready. A blanket out on the porch, my favorite ceramic mug, my journal, or a good book. Herein lies the transformation. My French press makes me wait, sending the message I should enjoy it. The coffee it produces isn't meant to be quickly poured into a plastic to go tumbler as I rush out the door. No, it's rich fluid is meant to be savored from a place of rest.

After some time, I return to the kitchen for the final step. Press. 

Some days it's a swift easy push, others, I have to use two hands to force the sludge to the bottom. And then, I pour a cup of jo.