I drink a lot of water and have high tea nearly every day. I find my unconditional love in gloriously amber drams of whisky. But I need coffee like Popeye needed spinach.
It produces similar results as well. I mean, I do not obtain superhuman strength like Popeye, but I do obtain the strength to deal with humans, which is just as remarkable. (Have you met humans?)
So coffee . . . lots and lots of coffee. At home, I grind my own beans and use a French press because I want my coffee to, like, actually be coffee.
Popeye did not bust open sautéed curly endive when called upon to save the always-in-trouble Olive Oyl. He ate raw spinach straight from the can. He did not soften that shit up.
Those of you with your K-cups, and your specialty creamers, and your sugar know the look Popeye would be giving you. Hell, even Wimpy would scoff.
Coffee should be fresh, strong, and pure — i.e., black. If I wanted sugar and milk, I'd eat Lucky Charms. If your coffee resembles anything other than the darkness of Bluto's soul, you are doing it wrong and do not actually enjoy coffee. Nor do you reap its glorious rewards of caffeine and caring about life.
But herein lies my problem. I need that coffee to function, especially in the morning. An insomniac by nature, my head and heart are too busy most nights to allow for rest. It is not uncommon for me to only get two hours of interrupted sleep.
On those mornings, my coffee need is strong. It is also inversely related to my ability to make the required coffee. The more tired I am, the more I need the coffee, and the more inept I am at making it.
And by inept, I mean that I accidentally spray half-ground coffee grounds all about my kitchen at least once a month. Hey! Securing the lid on the grinder is hard for some people (who never sleep)!
Insult to injury, I then need to focus enough energy to clean it all up . . . before ingesting the glorious elixir that is sanity. This is just cruel. Maybe not Guantánamo Bay cruel, but close. (Even my hyperbole has its limits.)
Some might argue that I should wave the white flag and just buy ground coffee. I refuse. What would be next? Bags of pre-shredded cheese? I shudder to think.
Hey, I yam what I yam.
No. It is much more reasonable to hope I will one day win the lottery (that I never play) and can hire someone to grind my coffee for me each morning.
Or, ya know, maybe hope to sleep four hours a night instead of two.
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