After a lifetime of loyal-tea, I’ve started to stray.
I want to be a proper writer. When I read interviews with writery-writers about their writing process, they all seem to be on the coffee. (Using phrases like writery-writer shows that I need to do a bit of work yet on the whole writing thing.)
All these successful writers get up at 6am. In fact, often they rise at 6am which is a much better way of waking up. And then they go and brew the coffee.
After that they write Booker-Prize stuff for five or six hours. It really does seem that they are getting the day off to the right start with the brewing of the coffee.
Even better, the coffee is brewing on a stove. It’s more inspirational than just boiling a kettle, then boiling it three more times because you forgot you boiled it, horsing the teabag in, steeping it for the wrong amount of time, taking the teabag out, splashing the door of the washing machine with a stain that remains for far too long, flopping in milk, taking one sup out of the tea and then forgetting about it because a child put porridge on their head. I just don’t feel creative enough after that.
So I’ve tentatively started on the coffee. Already I feel more writery, more hard-boiled and gritty. It won’t be long before I’ll be boring someone with the sentence:
We got a French press to kickstart the fit of coffee. ‘French press’ sounds like a euphemism for the cupboard you’d keep bold things in, long ago. “It was a disgrace, Father Pat. I saw it with my own two eyes. They kept these ‘yokes’ in a French press, the brazen hussies. The mother was the same.”
A French press is a little glass mug with a plunger for getting the water to mix with the coffee. Tea needn’t worry though.
I haven’t completely made my peace with coffee. I never will. Not until they sort out the café scandal.
You see, I am one of the silent minority who fume in the queue at a café while waiting for our tea. We just want hot water on a teabag.
But we must wait while every coffee-drinker gets the artisan treatment. There are beans to be poured in and ground, some sort of whomping-tamping and a few other mysterious steps that happen behind the counter.
Then ten minutes later, someone draws a flower that looks more like a small willy, on the top of the coffee and they move onto their next waiting customer.
“FFS” we scream silently. “Just hand us out the bag and we’ll do it ourselves.”
I don’t understand why they need all this fuss in the coffee shop. I’ve seen enough cop shows on telly to know that you go into the diner, the kindly waitress says “What’ll it be hunny?” and you growl at them “Coffee, Marsha, and make it strong”.
They just pour it out of a jug into a white mug. Then your bete noir shows up to taunt you about the lack of progress on the Sponzorelli case. No one is tamping or grinding or drawing little langers. And there is no one at the counter fuming waiting for someone to get their tea.
So coffee, I feel you now, but I ain’t a mug for you. Yet.
I am of the silent minority who fume at a café while waiting for our tea. We just want hot water on a teabag ... while every coffee drinker gets the artisan treatment