Melissa pushed the snooze button on her alarm a few times before she finally decided to get up. It had been a long night; she was going to need some extra energy: “It’s a 32 ouncer kind of day,” she mumbled as she rolled out of bed.
Stumbling her way into the kitchen with eyes half cracked she absentmindedly pulled the glass pitcher out from the drip station and filled it up under the faucet. She poured it into the open slot watching as the little red ball moved up with the liquid: 2, 4, 6. That ought to do it. She reached up to the cupboard and pulled down a shiny, green bag emblazoned with a mermaid on the front. Before she poured it into the grinder, she opened it and breathed deeply, “Mmmmm. You’re my favorite,” she said staring dreamily at the freshly roasted, black legumes that said nothing in return, “My liquid nap.” They made a satisfying tinkle sound as she poured them into the grinder. With a close of the lid, and a push of the button, they were quickly whipped into a coarse sand. She poured it on top of the filter which she had placed in the designated area in which filters are put, closed the lid and pushed the “brew” button.
She grabbed her favorite thermos, and hopped up on the counter unconsciously smiling as she listened to the gentle percolator.
Emily M.
Stacy stumbled into the kitchen sleepily.
“Good morning!” her husband Kevin chirped. “Want some hot lemon juice?”
“No I do not want hot lemon juice,” Stacy mumbled flatly, the way she did every morning. “I’m groggy and cranky and I need something to wake me up.”
“Hot lemon juice will give you an even better buzz!” Kevin said happily, as though he hadn’t tried to convince Stacy of this before. “And it won’t wear off! Or make you jittery!”
“No thanks,” said Stacy, opening a cabinet. She took out a bag, opened it, and inhaled the aroma deeply. She closed her eyes and let out a little contented sigh.
“Look, I got this local honey,” Kevin said, holding it up to show Stacy, who did not look. “Did you know if you eat honey made by local bees, it can cure some allergies? I put it in my hot lemon juice. It’s sooo good.”
Stacy held a pitcher under the faucet. She glared at Kevin over her shoulder. “Do you want any?”
Kevin waved his hot lemon juice at her with a smile. “Nope, I’m good.”
Stacy flipped the faucet off, and filled the back of their trusty Krups, which had brewed their morning joe faithfully since their wedding eight years ago. Well, now it just brewed Stacy’s morning joe. Kevin had switched to hot lemon juice about six months ago, when he decided to make healthy life choices. He had given up most good things, Stacy thought. Things like sugar, and gluten, and sleeping in.
Stacy counted six scoops into the filter, and pushed the button.
“You know you’re addicted. Do you really want—“
“YES I WANT!” Stacy said, staring at the gurgling machine. “I want it because I love it and it makes me happy, okay?”
Kevin smiled at her lovingly. He took a sip of hot lemon juice.
“You think you’re going to convince me someday, don’t you?”
“I just think you should try it. I’m not kidding, it’s del—”
Stacy grabbed Kevin’s hot lemon juice from his hands and took a sip. Her face contorted. She handed it back. “It’s awful.”
Five minutes later, Stacy and Kevin sat at the dining room table together, reading the paper.
“Cheers,” Kevin said for no reason, holding up his hot lemon juice.
“Cheers, babe,” Stacy said, without looking up from the paper.
Clink, went the little sound of tapping porcelain.
Emily H
My bright-faced toddler appeared next to my bed in the semi-darkness of early morning, happy and sunny and rarin’ to go. I smiled weakly then stiffly flopped out of bed. (Yes, one can flop stiffly. It’s basically how I get up every day. The flopping is due to tiredness. The stiffness is due to…age? I guess? Or just…parenthood? Anyhoo…) He ran ahead of me (how does he run first thing in the morning?) to the kitchen, where he settled himself on a stool and called out for cereal. Still rubbing my eyes, I grabbed him a bowl and filled it with cereal and milk, then handed him a spoon.
I leaned back against the counter, yawning, and as my son started sloppily eating his cereal, my eyes fell on the little machine plugged into the wall on the counter across from me. All sorts of happy little neurotransmitters started firing in my brain. Ah yes, I thought. Liquid courage. That’ll get me going.
I crossed the kitchen to the little appliance, the one that would deliver the warm, rich beverage to my waiting hands, mouth, stomach, and brain. I reached for a filter, grabbed a spoon, and opened up the jar containing the fragrant stuff. I inhaled deeply, savoring the beloved aroma, then scooped out the delicious bits, which looked, as always, somewhat like good healthy earth.
Behind me, my toddler was happily slurping milk out of his bowl, and half of it was falling in his lap. I glanced over my shoulder, sighed, and then the happy little neurons called my attention back to the task at hand.
I put the filter and its contents in their place, then filled the reservoir with good ol’ h-two-oh. I snapped the lid shut, turned the power on, and stared expectantly at it. I looked over my shoulder at the milky mess now all over the counter, my toddler still happily slurping, then stared back at the machine, willing it to brew faster. A sudden gurgle, a hiss of steam, and then the familiar smell wafted towards me. I grabbed an earthen beverage receptacle and held it between my hands, counting the seconds until the drink was ready.
With a final gurgle, pop, and hiss, the brewing was complete. I poured the blessed hot liquid into the earthen beverage receptacle and turned to face my toddler. Milk down his shirt, in his lap, on the counter and the floor, he smiled up at me as he held his bowl to his lips to slurp up the last of it. I took a sip of my piping hot drink, winced at the heat on my tongue, then smiled at him. “Cheers,” I said. “Teers!” he said. And together we drank.
Elisa
Snow was falling softly as my eyes opened for the day. I couldn’t hear it, of course, but I could sense the unusual quietness, and brightness of my bedroom. So I was not surprised to see the blanket covering my neighborhood when I finally set my bare feet upon my cold, hardwood floor and gazed out the window.
I did not cherish the quietness. It was an unwelcome change after raising a house full of boys. My husband, who was pretty quiet himself, had left while I was sleeping for a business trip. I shivered, knowing how he hated to travel in snow.
My feet pulled me up, asking for slippers, and led me downstairs to make something warm to wake me up. Instinctively, I filled a pitcher at the sink and walked over to the machine that had been our faithful elf for a couple decades.
And here is where I fully awoke. Taped to the top was a note. It read: “Sorry! Out of Order!”
“Wow,” squeaked out under my breath. That is not what I was expecting.
I fumbled around, not knowing what to do, and impulsively went to my next best thing, my phone. Sure enough, there was a text from my husband. It read: “Sorry about Old Faithful biting the dust in my absence! I hope you’ll treat yourself somewhere nice. Fully clothed, of course.”
The smile it brought warmed me more than any drink.
Cedar
The challenge: Describe someone making a pot of coffee. You may NOT use the words:
Coffee
Pot
Beans
Caffeine
Carafe
Cup
Mug
Grounds
Water
15 minutes
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