Cooking No. 9: French Press Coffee

Let me make a statement that has absolutely no bearing on my current physical condition: You know you are rockin’ the latent mommy skills when – at a terrible hour of the morning – you find yourself saying: “If you use the last one of something, you need to tell me, otherwise I won’t know to buy more.”

Welcome to the Carlton’s, circa 8 a.m. this morning, when Mr. C informed me that he used the last coffee filter yesterday morning. 10-4, Romeo. That is probably one of the last things I want to hear prior to my shower. (Another thing: “Nora barfed.” I heard that about three times this morning, when the resident feline decided to christen each room in her own special way.)

Fortunately, there’s more than one way to skin a cat in this household. (Pun utterly and completely intended. Nora has been an absolute brat this weekend.) I’m speaking, of course, of our French press. We almost had to whip it out for the first time last weekend during Irene, but the power came back on by the time we made it out of bed. (Don’t be a hater. I opened up the house for New England evacuees and no one came. You had options, just saying…) But in this story’s grand, ironic twist, having power for the coffee pot is irrelevant if you don’t have filters, so one of the shower presents we’d yet to open – believe it or not, there are still a few others – finally got its chance to shine.

Bert started off by coarsely grinding a fresh cup of beans. I was all for using the finer coffee I’d ground for the coffee pot, but Bert deemed me unqualified in the ways of the сafetière à piston and promptly went his own way. Granted, my one experience with a French press was an unfortunate episode in an English B&B that ended up with the grounds on the wrong side of the plunger and me wondering what all the ‘French press fuss’ was about, what with all the grounds floating around in your coffee. (This was the same trip I mistook a woman’s saltcellar for the sugar bowl and salted my coffee. Lesson Learned: When across the pond, drink tea.) So maybe he was playing it smart.

He followed up by boiling water in the kettle and letting the whole contraption seep for four minutes. Bert loves gizmos and gadgets – especially of the Bodum variety – so the whole process was really exciting for him. I was just excited when he handed me a cup of passable, ground-free coffee. It was a little cool – he was short on the boiled water and had to supplement it with some from the tap – but not too bad. Nothing the microwave couldn’t fix. Bert said he wouldn’t mind using the press more, but probably not during the week since it took awhile to clean up afterwards.

I wouldn’t mind using the press more either, but probably not before I’ve already had a cup of coffee. (I know, I know. My logic is terrible.) There’s something very romantic about a French press, but it’s a bit finicky, a bit too refined for a pre-caffeine activity. I have to time it? The grounds have to be on a certain side of the plunger? I can't just press a button? Sometimes in the morning, I put the cereal in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. There’s really no room for complicated rituals here.

So needless to say, I picked up a pack of filters on the way home from church. But if and when we run out again, it’s nice to know we have backup. Good, solid, ground-free backup.