Coffee, Capitalism, and the Collapse of My Morning Ritual
When I first moved to California, I was handed a French press like it was a spiritual awakening. “It’s rich. Bold. Less acidic,” they whispered, like I was joining a coffee cult. I had just graduated from the holy trinity of caffeine convenience in the midwest world: the Starbucks vanilla latte, the Keurig pod, and a big ol’ pot of Folgers on the counter. I didn’t know how to use a French press. Honestly, I didn’t even know what it did. But suddenly I was grinding beans, boiling water, and timing steep cycles like a Cancer romanticizing their morning.
The Pressed Era:
For a while, I loved it. It felt like morning self-care. I was classyyy. I’d make it in pajamas, sip slowly while journaling or scrolling the apps like a true hybrid-working romantic. The French press was my girl. She was a vibe. She made me feel like the kind of woman who owned matching mugs and poured her feelings into hand-poured coffee.
Sometimes, I’d split the pot with my roommate during what we (I) dubbed Countertop Therapy — just two over-caffeinated brains pacing through our latest existential questions, therapy revelations, or whatever weird thing the world was doing that week. It was low-key, unfiltered, and somehow the best way to start the day.
But now? I live in Alaska. I start work at 6:45 a.m most days. and my feet hurt so bad. I’m standing, moving, lifting, greeting, managing (usually in the rain) — all. day. long. I come home and collapse face-first into whatever carbs are closest to the ground. Don’t forget feeding my farm of animals before I’ve even thought about what I’m eating...
And suddenly, the French press isn’t romantic anymore. She’s… a lot. She’s needy. She demands attention and care and multiple steps before I’m even caffeinated. I have to grind the beans. Boil the water. Wait four entire minutes (an eternity in tired-girl time). And when it’s done? I still have to deal with soggy, sludgy grounds stuck like a sad swamp at the bottom.
In this economy??
Coffee as Identity:
And that’s when it hit me:
How we make our coffee at home might just be the clearest reflection of where we are in life.
The French press? That’s single-girl luxury. She’s romantic, slow, intentional. She’s “I have time to do yoga and light a candle before work” energy. She’s the physical embodiment of the aesthetic morning routine.
She’s great — if you’re in a place where your mornings can be slow. If your biggest stressor is deciding between yoga or pilates before your first zoom meeting (literally NO shade).
But me? Right now? I want function. I want a programmable pot that has my back at 6:30 a.m. sharp. I want a red light that says “this is ready” so I don’t have to think. Hell, I want a Keurig. One button, no drama. Just blind, obedient caffeine delivery.
And I realized… that doesn’t make me lazy. That makes me practical. Present. Tired… but self-aware.
Because maybe the coffee ritual we choose says less about how put-together we are, and more about how honest we’re being with ourselves.
A Bit Wiser (and Caffeinated):
So yeah. There was a time I thought the French press made me more sophisticated. More adult. More together.
But the truth is? Sometimes adulthood looks like less.
Less steps. Less pressure. Less “am I doing this right?” energy before sunrise.
These days, I don’t want artisanal. I want automatic.
French press? I still love you. But right now? I need something less high-maintenance. You were my soft launch into slow living, and I appreciate that. But currently, I need my coffee to serve me — not the other way around.
Love you always, but respectfully,
It’s not you. It’s my schedule.