It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the clatter of the north wind, across the roof with its freight of frozen twigs and pine needles, over the eaves and down into the sleeping garden. Here in the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi espresso machine, the rattle and hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
By rights, there should be the sound of a toaster too, but it will be an hour or so before I can even think about toast. This is a "bang up" month for migraines, and I have awakened with a whopper - thought about doing prescription meds when I opened my eyes but opted for a beaker of industrial strength espresso instead.
The stuff in my cup approaches the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel and could be dispatched with a fork. Steam rises in arty curls from the surface, and a splendid darker froth rings its shores. The fragrance of freshly ground Logdriver Espresso (fair trade, organic) from the Bridgehead Roastery is ambrosial. So were the beans in their canister when I fumbled it out of the pantry. The coffee wizards at the beanery describe the blend as hardworking and nimble with hints of cocoa and caramel, and if that isn't poetry, I don't know what is. Just look at that heavenly crema. Yup, I can do this.
My thoughts always turn to Paris when the weather is like this. With badass beaker in hand, I am looking through my rainy day "stash" of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards, stickers and notebooks - the little ones with maps of France, old French postage stamps or the Eiffel tower gracing their covers.
Whatever the weather, this will be a grand day. When the migraine has drowned in my espresso sea, I will curl up in a corner somewhere and read something in French, perhaps the latest Fred Vargas. Why didn't I order croissants?
No comments:
Post a Comment