I am grateful for coffee. The kind I like best is home-brewed, smoking-hot, loaded with waaaaay too much dollar store creamer in a cup my mom bought for me at the Salvation Army for a quarter. But I’ll have what you’re having too.
I am grateful that my sweet husband gets the coffee “plug-in ready” before we go to bed. Rod is one of those people who sleepwalks for the first hour he is “awake.” I have seen him make coffee in this fugue state and it’s not a good idea.
My mother’s coffee pot is a 1970’s electric Corning Ware percolator that takes 16 minutes of chugging, snorting, and straining alchemy to turn coffee grounds into coffee gold.
Things you can do while waiting for your first cup: Feed cats in three places, wash the after dinner dishes from dessert and snacks from the night before, check your email, clean up cat puke so your mother won’t see, change into your day clothes, charge your phone, refill the creamer container or you can just lean against the counter and curse the pot repeatedly for sixteen minutes. Either way, there is no rushing perfection.
We may have one of the only mug trees left in America. This little treasure holds 6 cups which doesn’t make a dent in our cup population, but makes it handy to see if you brought your cup in from out in the yard while you were drinking coffee and communing with nature.
When you plug in the coffee pot, you have to strategically place your arm between this tower of pottery and the knife block. If you’re sleepwalking, your arm won’t fit or go quietly.
As grateful as I am for coffee, the best part of waking up is not the coffee but who I get to drink it with. Come on over and I’ll make a pot.
Hugs, Diana