She struggled with the covers, fighting for supremacy and escape. Her feet tangled in all the heating pad cords, and she nearly took a header finding her shoes.
She had the route from the bedroom to the kitchen tattooed on her amorphous brain. As her house was less than 400 square feet, this was not too difficult. Even with eyes closed, and dawn not yet streaking red and orange through the windows.
If not too tired or sighy the night before, all would be in readiness. Coffee beans mixed and ground, or at least in the hopper. Kettle full of filtered water. Mug, filter cone, filter all neatly in a row. Or, as usual – fumble with the damned twist ties on the coffee bags; figure out visually (using measuring cup too easy) how much of each type of bean to use. Stopping to smell the beans at all stages in an effort to maintain energy to complete each task. Shake, not stir, the beans in the old Tahiti Vanilla gelato jar, pour into the hopper of the coffee grinder, spilling some across the counter, on to the floor to be stepped on. Tighten the nut at the top of the hand crank, and round and round and round she goes, changing hands about 1/2 way through.
When the mound of coffee in the glass bottom of the jar reached a certain height, like sand through a sand dial, she spillily slopped water from the pitcher into the kettle. After a few flicks, the electric connection took, and the kettle began to purr. A few more cranks – she walked around holding the grinder like a baby to her hip – and she had enough of the precious stuff to stop, and put her head on the counter and wait for the water to almost boil.
The vibrations of “almost boil” carried through the fake granite of the countertop, and having almost fallen asleep, she jerked her head up too fast. The whoozy-spins, the stumble-steps. Breathe. Center.
The rest was on auto-pilot: put hot water in cup to warm it, grab a coffee filter from the cupboard, sorta fold it along the lines and stuff it into the filter cone. Flick the kettle switch again, pour out hot water in cup over kitchen sponge – burn, germs and bacteria, burn – put coffee (3 scoops of various sizes) into filter, filter cone on cup. Kettle re-boiled, slowly drip water over grounds.
Get cream out of fridge. Pills out of bottom cupboard. Bit more water. Careful – often running for sink with flooding cup and filter – to get just right.
Pour in cream, stir, smell, put hot cup against sore cheek, then first sip as kitchen glows with dawnish light . . . . . agrotiveness is achieved.
Agrotiveness: the moment of bliss with the first sip of a really good cup of coffee laced with cream – especially the first cup of the day.
*Michael introduced such a wonderful word: agrotive. However, as co-prompt writer, I felt I could take the liberty of adding ness.
@taleweaving 2016 Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, Tale Weaver 55: Making Sense of Nonsense: Agrotive