synapse collapse

I struggle with sleeping in much more than she so I’m often the first one up and certainly the first one in the kitchen. She’s a coffee drinker where I prefer tea or juice most mornings but I still love to ritualistically pull down the burr grinder, carafe and French press from their top shelf and start a kettle. I fill the carafe with water as hot as the tap will allow, fill the grinder with a predetermined amount of beans and pulverize. … I empty the warmed carafe, plunge the press and transfer the fresh brew. I pour her a cup, no cream or sugar, and return to find her sitting up, rubbing her eyes. She always smiles, looks up with those beautiful eyes, hands outstretched. She takes a sip and tells me she loves me.

This is more or less my morning routine, but we both prefer coffee—black for me, cream for her—and we take turns with the first-awake duties of making and serving. And she isn’t obsessed with temperature or preheating.