Mugshots and Coffee Addictions

My day has three key points, with similar breaks in between.

Cafes, drive-throughs, church, work: it’s become an all-day process. Coffee is either with me or waiting for me. At home, to say that I’m a minimalist, I’m also a coffee-hoarder. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, until I started organizing the kitchen in my new apartment.

The first step is admitting (I say this while taking another sip). I had my own little intervention, as I laid everything out in the open: I counted an Expresso machine, an old-fashion-dripping-pot, a Frenchpress, an electric kettle, a coffee grinder, an Areopress, a Keurig, 50 K-Cups, creamers (powder ones, liquid ones), fresh beans, filters, half bags of old coffee grounds, caramel flavored Latte foam—and the list keeps going.

A year ago, my friend mentioned that, one day, we should open up our own coffee shop, and it’s as if I’ve been preparing the inventory for it ever since.


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