Coffee Is My Love Language

Yesterday, I had a splitting headache in the afternoon. I took my hair down, I took a short nap, but it persisted. I realized that I had not had a cup of coffee that morning, and so I made some. I like the whole process of making coffee in a French press. I like scooping the shiny dark beans into the grinder, pressing the button and watching them swirl into just the right size. Then, I dump the coffee into the shiny clean glass. I add boiling water, stir and wait. I like the whole contraption, with its layers of metal filters and springs that sit on top of the floating coffee grinds, waiting to be pressed down. It's such a satisfactory ritual. And, the coffee made my headache go away, which is evidence that I am currently addicted.

When Elisabeth went to a conference in Minneapolis, I covered some of her classes. She brought me back a pound of whole bean Caribou Coffee. Elisabeth drinks coffee only rarely, so it was just for me.

When Esther was in town visiting, Josh stopped by mid-morning on Saturday to deliver a thermos of coffee. He thought she had probably spent the night, and that we would be slow in waking up.

When I was home for break, I would leave a note on the kitchen table, requesting that my parents wake me up at a particular time. The next morning, Mom or Dad would come in my room, softly whisper "Good Morning" and place my favorite sailboat mug, full of fresh, hot coffee, beside me.

I will forgive nature for winter because she also made the coffee bean.