Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Pressed


If life is like coffee, I, by no means, am a to-go-mug of filtered auto drip, set the night before and timed for a precise wake up call. There is no arousing aroma here. Neither do I find myself to be a carefully prepared sweetened double espresso macchiato is there anything else I can get for you, Sir, asks the Barrista from the drive-thru window java man. I am more of a French Pressed, tout le chemin bébé!, cobble-stoned sidewalk café on a Sunday afternoon individual. I sit in boiling water for four minutes with all my freshly ground junk circulating around me in a whirlpool of oily disaster. Then, I’m finally pressed down, releasing all those flavonoids and essential oils, and finally poured, leaving all the residual grinds behind.

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