Bumbi’s Mom has a love letter to coffee, which pretty much sums it up.
Until I met my Love, coffee was whatever came out of the urn at a jobsite or a diner nearby.
My Love, on the other hand … “Fanatic” would not be too strong a word.
Just to give you an idea: She has three burr grinders, one set for the filter coffeemaker, one for the French press and one for the espresso machine. The espresso machine is a brass, lever-action Pavoni – a gorgeous work of art.
My Love is NOT a morning person.
On the first morning I stayed in her apartment, I was up first. I made coffee. When she woke up, I brought her a cup in bed.
She took one sip. Without a word, she got up, went to the kitchen, poured the cup down the drain, picked up the pot and poured it down the drain. Then,
Sweetie, I love you more than life itself. But if I have to get up before you to keep you from making ghastly coffee, this is going to be a short romance.
And she showed me how to make coffee. It took me a half-dozen tries before I made a pot that she would even taste.
She wouldn’t let me touch the Pavoni until I’d been in New York for months. It was a month before I could pull an espresso that didn’t taste like hot water soaked in the butts of cheap cigars. It was another month before I could pull an acceptable crema.
Now, she will even drink my espresso. I’ve never been so proud of any accomplishment. I bask in the glow of her favor.
And I’m as fanatic as she is about coffee.