I will never, and I mean never ever, understand the current coffee culture. I understand it in theory but there is something about it that offends my blatant hermit-like sensibility.

There is a difference between the perfectly prepared ice cappuccino I enjoy on these warm summer days and the quiet me-time coffee break I allow myself at home.

I happen to be gifted with true french press skills. Perhaps it’s the silent prayer whispered in my heart space when grinding the beans or it’s the rest period I religiously adhere to between me-time coffee days. Much like my cheese days, my coffee days are ceremonial.

I was once so deep in the enjoyment of a piece of cheese that I became completely lost and unaware of what my dining partner was saying. It’s an insult to some but I must say I appreciate silence when eating cheese.

My coffee time alone is no different. The experience is a holy communion between myself and the divine. I treat it as a sacrament. My phone is turned off and there is zero chance that I will answer a knock at the door.

This experience is for a party of one.

Please, do not disturb.





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