Every morning, my husband manages the kids while I get ready for work or sleep in a bit on the weekend. First thing, they gather around the coffee grinder, counting scoops of beans in long, slow toddler counting. “Oooooonnnnnnee. Twooooooooo. Fweeeeeeeeee.”
They wrap the grinder in an old kitchen towel to stifle the noise and then whiz the beans around, crushing them to a fine powder. They work together to tap them into the French press, and then in no time the tea kettle whistles and they pour. They munch their eggs and bacon while the coffee steeps. Odd days and even days, little N and little S alternate turns to plunge the filter down to the bottom. There has been known to be cheering when Daddy pours his first cup of coffee.
This little coffee routine is the bane of my existence.
I don’t know precisely which part I find the most aggravating. Is it the coffee grinder waking me up during my “sleep in” time? Is it the fine powder of coffee grounds that litter the counter? Maybe it’s the errant coffee beans that hide under my cabinets, skating out into the middle of the floor as I approach with bare feet.
A leading contender was the coffee cup circles on the counter, but that’s mostly been mitigated with some new travel mugs.
Then, there’s the washing of the French press. The slosh of coffee grounds into the compost bin, but the inevitability that most of the coffee grounds will scatter themselves across my white kitchen sin. The many rinses it takes to get every last coffee ground down the drain. The way that my sponges never quite look clean after attacking the press. The stench of old, stale coffee lingering on my hands after the dishes are done.
I think it’s fair to say that morning coffee is my worst part of waking up.