Mad Woman, Stronger Coffee: A Double Shot of Impulse

 Some time ago, I wrote an entire story about fishing a dead Keurig out of the trash in my jammies. I wish I could tell you the replacement lived a long and productive life.

Welp, it didn't, so I finally accepted that K-Cup convenience wasn't meant for me, and made do with the trusty pot we had.

I hated it immediately.

I'm already awake most days by 4 a.m. while the rest of the house remains blissfully unaware that morning has broken. So I would program the drip pot for myself, leaving my husband, The Balkan Storm, to come downstairs hours later to nuke what was left.

He said he didn't mind.
But I did.

The Balkan Storm works too hard to wake up to shitty coffee. So when the trusty pot recently died (to date, I've killed more machines than Sarah Connor), I replaced it with a stainless-steel carafe.

Less heat loss, very practical. Assuaged my guilt.

Then I took a road trip and ruined everything with espresso.

The trip had been The Storm's idea.

Not surprising given I had reached the stage of burnout where I was face-down in gluten-free tortilla chips and treating every request made of me as a personal attack.

To his credit, he never called me insufferable. He merely began suggesting, with noticeably increasing enthusiasm, that I leave.

"Go somewhere and don’t think about anything,"he said.

Well, I could try, anyway.

I booked a room in a historic hotel where every sconce, settee, and Sargent felt carefully chosen, which made me painfully aware that most of my own home was decorated in a style called 'necessity, inheritance, and a dash of Target crap'.

But I could sit in a beautiful room with no dog hair in it, have coffee, and just be.

It was magnificent - and then I discovered the espresso maker.

I’d always ranked espresso up there with silk pajamas, first-class tickets, and ample counter space: nice, but probably not something I was getting anytime soon.

But you popped a capsule in the hotel Lavazza and out came fragrant, hot espresso.

A quick search on Amazon showed it marked down to $60. Sixty bucks isn't luxury. Hell, it's not even a full bag's worth of Target crap.

I could have K-Cup convenience and feel schmancy with all the accoutrements?

I’m not Keurig’s bitch. I’m Amazon’s.

The Lavazza arrived the day after I got home, along with a case of pods and some new glass demitasses I had considered essential to the experience.

If I was going to become an espresso person, I wasn't drinking it out of a mug that read OVERSTIMULATED MOM.

Naturally, The Balkan Storm found the whole production hilarious. Now, to be fair, I’d just come home from a weekend getaway, and immediately filled our porch with yet another appliance.

I didn't even need the thing; I just bought a new coffeepot.

“What is it with you and all this coffee stuff?" he asked me in a tone half amused and half exasperated.

At that point, I'd lost count of our coffeemakers anyway.

But I was excited about buying something that reminded me of a relaxing weekend away. It made great espresso, and I liked it.

It went against all my sense of practicality. My husband simply said, "Hey, whatever brings you joy brings me joy."

Easy for him to say. He hasn't seen the monthly Amazon receipts.

Now, every morning, I start the day with espresso, brushing dog hair off the sofa she's totally not allowed on. The house is quiet, the coffee is good, and for a few minutes, I'm back at the hotel.

And I didn't have to fish through the trash for anything this time.

Yet.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.