I was just there. In the kitchen, I mean. I’m barely two sips into my espresso. And now this nonsense. What a delight.
18 grams of little dark, fulsome beans. Roasted less than a week ago. Now ground into a small pile of delicious, finely-grained chocolaty fragrance. Carefully leveled in a stainless steel basket. Tap it gently. Then tamp, tamp, tamp into a compact puck.
Engage. Start. Water pumping. Pre-infusion. THIS is a symphony!
Now, wait. Watch. Blond frothy crema hits the bottom of the pre-warmed cup, chased by a thick, chest-nutty liquid. No hurry my love. Take it slow. That’s gooood.
Extract until the scales hit 45 grams. Time: 31 seconds. Yes, that’s right, scales and a timer, baby! 45 grams of complete goodness in a perfectly sized, 2-shot-cup. That’s how I do it. That’s how it’s done. You better believe it.
Heck yeah, it’s grams. Convert it if you must. It’s a European machine.
Never mind. She doesn’t appreciate that either.
My short, hot brunette. My steaming hot baby. Ha, ha, ha. I’m not laughing. But I’m amused that I’m thinking it. Sip. You know how it feels. Oh, you don’t? This is how. This is dope. My soul is spinning pirouettes on the soft featherbed of heartwarming delight. That’s what that means. That’s how dope it is. That’s just one sip. But she can’t even give me that. Won’t let me have it. Nope.
El matador arrives in el kitchen. Or is it matadora? She, her, whatever. A sweeping glance. Check. She looks around. Unassuming. A non-fucking-chalantly attempt to look nonchalant. I see. Nothing new. Same performance as always. I’m not looking. But heck yeah, I’m noticing. She’s waving that damn red cape of hers. Trying to get the bull’s attention. Turning up the heat. My heat.
She’s grabbing the dishrag. Like there’s anything to clean. She holds that piece of cloth like a fucking Estoque. A matador’s sword. The sword that kills the bull. Of course, you didn’t know that. Now you know.
You see, this is what’s pissing me off. I cleaned the damn kitchen. It’s a methodical approach, you know. A sequential process: pull a shot, dump the grounds, rinse the basket, wipe the machine, wipe the counter, clean the sink, flush all remaining coffee grounds down the drain. Then clean again. Wipe up all the damn little water spots, and sprinkles, and drips, and drops, and what have you not. It’s goddamn water but I clean it like it’s a fucking oil spill. Every damn time. It’s what I’ve been taught.
That’s right, I’ve been taught how to clean. Wait, not taught – told. I’ve been instructed, and I’ve been directed. Hundreds of times, for sure. Technically it’s not cleaning, you know. It’s wiping. That’s a subcategory of cleaning. It’s cleaning light for subordinates who haven’t mastered their tools yet. Or can’t be trusted with them. Or both.
So I wiped it spotless.
Now she’s wiping.