January 23, 2012

french pressed.

My family is not a coffee family. My dad occasionally drank it -- after church on Sundays, at family reunions, that type of thing. I didn't start drinking coffee until high school... even then, it was only once a week at my Saturday job. University rolled around and I found myself developing a a taste for it. I started dating Wayne and coffee-scrabble dates became common. Before I had a chance to realize it, I became a coffee drinker.

I wouldn't say I've ever been addicted -- even now, I try to only have coffee on weekends (and drown myself in tea from Monday - Friday). However, marrying a guy who grew up in a family full of coffee drinkers has turned me into a bit of a coffee snob.

During all the gifting that happens when one gets married, we ended up with two french coffee presses -- one of which I immediately smashed (sorry Aunt Jess). Wayne makes some seriously good coffee with the french press. I do not. He's let me try a couple times but I've created nothing but poison; it's either been horribly weak or strong enough to coat your tongue in a layer of caffeinated silt. Needless to say I don't touch the french press anymore.

One night last week I was fancying a cup of coffee. Wayne wasn't home. I knew the french press and I weren't on the best of terms so instead went for the instant version. GAH! It tastes nothing like coffee! Such a disappointment. My standards are too high. It's kind of inconvenient. Why do french press skills elude me?!

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