In the 1970s, this is what my parents drank. They'd boil a large pot in the wee hours of the morning for my dad to fill his thermos before leaving the house at 5am for his hour-long commute to San Francisco. Whatever didn't make it to the thermos would sit in the carafe all the live-long day. And then, when dad returned home from work around 6pm, he'd take that same bitter brew that had been sitting cold on the stove top for 13 hours and nuke it in the microwave for he and mom to enjoy in the evening.
I took a sip of their coffee. Once. It tasted like battery acid with cream. My taste buds were traumatized, which is probably why I didn't start drinking coffee until well into my late twenties. Right around the time that coffee shops started cropping up with specialty drinks, like lattes and cafe mochas and cappuccinos, and --you know--the good stuff. And I realized wow, coffee could actually be a tasty drink if made properly.
These days it's impossible not to make good coffee at home. All you need is the right machine, like a Nespresso, Keurig, or Bosch. Plug it in, insert a pod, press a button, and before you can say, "The next best thing to waking up...." there you have it: a gourmet cuppa joe complete with frothy foam. The only finger you have to lift is the one holding the mug to your lips.
In 1986, when my salt-of-the-earth parents learned that I was spending $1.75 every single day to buy a latte, they said, "Enough throwing away your money. Make your own lattes!" And, as a Christmas present, they plunked down $100 to buy me a Krups Espresso Maker. The first, and maybe the second and third and fourth times I tried steaming the milk, the hot liquid exploded, spraying milk all over the ceiling and walls. But over the past 28 years I've mastered the craft to perfection. And using the same Krups Espresso Maker, I might add, three times a week no less.
No buttons to push. No pods to insert. I grind my own coffee, measure the water, and steam the milk, with nary a drop on the ceiling. Sure, I could buy one of those fancy new machines where all I have to do is insert, press, wait.
But there's something about my ritual that I like, especially on weekend mornings. I listen to the hissing steam as I watch the sun rise, monitor the cresting foam as it nears the rim of my cup, and then sit down to enjoy my hard-earned drink, enhanced with maybe a little almond syrup or coconut sugar, and cinnamon sprinkled on top.
Today's sophisticated coffee makers probably render my Krups method a bit archaic. Just as I thought of my parents' method for boiling tap water and adding coffee crystals. But I think of my mom and dad, who both died far too young, every single time I use that Krups machine.
And that alone makes for a perfect cup of coffee.
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