I recently ordered a French press coffee maker. It came in the mail today. Of course, even though I had already enjoyed two three four cups earlier this morning, I tore open the package and immediately brewed a pot. And now, as I sit here sipping, with cold, winter rain slopping drearily on my purportedly-insulated, condensation-caked windowpanes, I breathe in the deep, musky aroma of a true cup of coffee. It is like a dream; the groggy fog lifts, the bone-chilling cold dissapates, the sun feels warm on the skin again, and – faintly – I hear birds singing a cheery little melody from a fragrantly flowered branch.
If I had known it would be this good, I’d have bought a French press long ago.