I am not a big coffee drinker. I don’t even drink a cup a day, and if I am under-the-weather, I’ll drink black tea for days on end. But I do love coffee. Especially with lots of cream and sugar (I am a total non-purist, I know). For me, coffee has always been fuel for writing. Something about that particular brand of caffeinated energy rush starts my fingers typing, even before my brain recognizes that it’s fully awake. These days, I am just as liable to use the black stuff as inspiration to just get out of the house already on sleepy mornings when Elan doesn’t go to daycare and is still in his footed sleeper at 9:45 even though we’ve been up since 6:30.

But oh he’s cute in that sleeper.
Where was I?
Until recently, we did not own a coffee maker besides the on-the-stove kind which we could never get to make anything we’d want to drink. So I bought a French press, and I have been practicing. And this morning, I made myself the most heavenly cup of coffee, the perfect amount with no waste, and it had a deep velvety chocolate taste.
And now this is the part where I keep it in the family, and plug my brother-in-law’s coffee company 1000 Faces. Cause that is some yummy stuff.