Thank God for another beautiful sunrise this morning—flat low-lying clouds glowing pink then orange from underneath. Gorgeous enough to drag me up out of my funk. I woke too late this morning, or I should say I went back to sleep when I woke at four and didn’t wake again until almost six, when my body and head hurt too much for me to ignore anymore. I must have been crying for a while, because my pillow and hair were wet.
The crying continued as I made my way downstairs, running into every doorjamb on the way, and it increased when I remembered I’d used the last coffee filter yesterday and had forgotten to get more. Not that I was sobbing, just leaking really.
Our paper towels don’t lend themselves to back-up filters, leaving too much lint in the brew. So I use a French press as a back-up means of life-support. But my wonderful wife, who does all of the shopping for our family, has taken to grinding the five pound bag of beans at the store in their industrial beast to save me the time standing at the counter doing so one pot at a time. And, being a wonderful wife, she knows that if I can see through the brewed coffee in my cup, it’s too weak; I want to be able to see a reflection in my coffee, I want to be slapped around by a rich, full flavor.
Again, I digress. I love coffee. My point was, the drip grind is much much finer than what I would use for the press, and since my wife is now grinding all of my coffee for me, I can’t adjust it at home. And so, the press is not such a convenient back-up. This morning, I began to get angry as I visualized all of the grounds seeping up through the strainer, making mud soup.
I didn’t even try to avoid flying into a rage. I’ve found that the best solution is to not get angry to begin with, since once it starts, the cascade doesn’t stop. I feel like the Incredible Hulk, once that switch is flipped there’s no turning back until the rage has run its course. So most times, I focus on my breathing, try to put the situation into perspective.
Not this morning. I thought for a few seconds I’d hit the jackpot and skirted the rage when I remembered out of nowhere some beans a friend had given me for a gift. I dug them out of the freezer, what precious few remained. It’s really good coffee. I had to hide it from myself to save for days when I need something special to savor or when I feel I’ve earned or want a special treat. Like today hahahahaha.
So what if the delicious little dark brown nuggets needed to be ground? I have a grinder. I can do that, and leave them coarse for a change. I had coffee and my morning was back on track. Until I spilled half the beans on the floor by missing the grinder and not pulling the bag back up in time. Then I over-ground them because I’d been trying to be efficient and roll the bag back up at the same time. With great trepidation I lifted the lid on the grinder, and my hand was instantly coated in a fine brown powder. Perfect for the drip. Terrible for the press.
That’s when I went over the edge and I’m sure I turned green. I slammed the grinder back on the counter and started to cry in earnest. My hips, knees, and shoulders complained that I was a crazy woman and exhorted me to sit down. I ignored them, making my way toward the electric kettle. Which was almost empty, damn it all to hell and back again. Could nothing go right? The sink is at least eight steps from the socket for the kettle. I tugged on the cord but it wouldn’t come out of the kettle. I tugged again; still nothing.
If I’m feeling this mean and green why do I not have the strength to get the cord out of a simple kitchen appliance? In retrospect, I probably should have tried my left arm, the one not bruised and sore from running into things. But at the time, I was going to get that cord off that kettle whether I broke the thing or not.
Oh what a battle. I yanked; it went into a full retreat. I held the cord firm and pulled the kettle away from me; the cord slipped through my fingers. I beat it once flat against the counter to show it who was boss—I am the one with the thumbs in this situation after all—and pulled again. It remained unimpressed with my flaccid display of brute force. I cursed at it fluently, vehemently, in multiple languages. It bucked and resisted my every effort, overturning the other items on the counter.
The ruckus at this point brought my wife out of bed to call down the stairs, inquiring if I was all right. She knows I’m not, but she also has learned to leave me alone because I will take down anyone and anything that tries to get between me and whatever I’m battling.
Or I’ll try and end up hurting myself. I called up that I was fine, beat the kettle randomly on the counter again, and gave one last pull. It gave at last, and so unexpected was the victory that I stumbled backward and spilled what little water had been in the kettle all over myself. I don’t see how I could have done that; the lid latches and clicks into place. I think it was sabotage. That damn kettle. We haven’t seen the last of each other, the two of us.
Yes, I know I could have brought the water to the appliance. I could have asked my wife to make the coffee for me. But the switch had been flipped and that kettle was going down. I was getting my coffee no matter the casualties.
It makes no sense, and these moods are not reflective of my overall personality. I’m feisty and stubborn, yes. No doubt. But to dissolve into a toddler-like tantrum in the middle of my kitchen at six in the morning because I forgot to get filters, I spilled the beans and then overground them is not really me and I hate it.
At least the rage dissipates quickly, if I let it out. Ten minutes after the whole battle royale, I stepped onto my frosty porch and sat down to enjoy an amazing perspective-shifting sunrise while enjoying some of the best mud soup I’ve ever had.
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