I thought the French press was something the French did in bed.
Who knew it was an odd looking coffee pot.
Certainly not me who spends a small fortune at Starbucks, which is why, I thought, I’ll just buy myself a pot of my very own to brew a nice cheap cup in.
Yeah right, who was I kidding, but thought I’d pretend to be a woman of thrift anyway, just to see how it feels.
So I tooled over to Bed Bath & Beyond, with my 20% coupon, to peruse their vast collection of coffee makers. I didn’t want to go electric, ya know, like Dylan, so I passed, on all the fancy schmancys lined up like chrome movie stars, when Carmelita, the inhouse coffee expert, popped over to suggest, I go French.
“No filta…so easy. You’ll neva go back to Melitta or Mista Coffee again.”
“Excuse me Carm, but I’ve never canoodled with Mr. Coffee, thank you very much. I did know Melitta for a time, but that didn’t work out since she was quite messy.”
After a demonstration she should take on the road, I left with my new press, pressed in enough bubblewrap to ship it to Mars.
It’s here, out of the box, me getting used to its presence as I sip my third cup of Starbuck’s Guatamala Special Blend of the Week, wondering, how a nice geranium might look in it.
3 scoops of coarse ground coffee in the beaker, the directions say. Still sounds sexual to me, and besides, I’m from Connecticut where we opt for silky smooth, not coarse, in a nice, cheery design.
Wonder of Brooks Brothers makes a seersucker blend.