Now Everyone Can Have a Coffee-Maker at Home

Oh, this looks like a small house, too small. Is this an apartment? I’ve never been in an apartment before! Sitting on the shelf next to the intimidating percolator I imagined I would end up in some delicate French cafe, or an English estate. That’s where the percolator came from, I believe, the noble coffee-maker it is, the Débelloire, all French and brass. It was no longer for sale, though, as old as it was, but it told me all the stories of the large kitchens and the maids, who’d gossip and chatter as they flitted about heating the stove for its brew, waiting carefully for the tinging sound of the boiling water to announce the completion of the perfect extraction. If they missed the signal, the brew would become bolder and more bitter, too much so. It was an art those maids had mastered, the art of the perfect cup of coffee, always served in a lovely demitasse for its lavish drinker. 

I expected to hear the clicks of maids scurrying, or maybe even the continuous scraping of chairs on hardwood in one of those cafes the old contraption always told me about. Those are the two places he said I could end up, establishments fit for the convenience of on-premise brewing. I didn’t hear any of that, though, just the dull buzz of traffic on the streets below, the intermittent honking of the yellow cabs I sometimes had seen pass by the shop window. This kitchen holds no great steel appliances, no firing stovetop upon which to rest- although I don’t need that anymore with the electrical bits and automation. I still assumed the home would have one. I see only a small wooden table with three chairs pulled up against the three-paned window, while I sit atop counter that rests along the opposite wall. 

The mismatched plates and forks that I see the woman pull out contrast sharply with my dreams of fine white porcelain and sterling. She is the one who took me from the shop I was waiting in before, so round-faced and cheery, with bouncing blonde hair. Her socks are two different colors in her clogs. I quickly think back to the mismatched plates and forks. She wears no apron, and is clearly no maid, but she still chatters endlessly to the tall blonde man that walks into the kitchen as she sets me up. My switches and timer and sturdy glass carafe! She speaks faster and louder with each feature she points out. The electricity buzzes as she praises my capabilities, and for once I am proud of the streamlined simplicity that before seemed tacky in comparison to the manual brass models before me. He seems pleased too, but he is looking at her more than at me. As she rips open a packet of disposable filters and scoops the ground beans I ready myself to make the most perfect pot of coffee for them as swiftly as I am able, no need to worry about waiting for my signal as I shut off my brewing at precisely the right time, no mess, no hassle. They deserves it. The couple doesn’t seem noble or their home stately, but I like this cozy apartment, the warmth and color and bustling noise outside. I doubt this home could ever have the convenience of a coffee maker like the percolator before, and there’s a magic in being the first to provide that joy.

I dutifully perform my brewing at the start of each morning as I watch the seasons change outside the apartment. In the winter when the clouds roll out grey and rain mists the kitchen window, I start my work before the sun rises. Once the coats leave the backs of the chairs and the sky turns blue and sunny before my brewing begins, I know that summer has sprung. Nothing else much changes in the apartment I call my home, along with the couple, as they drink their cups every morning, the man at the table and the woman perched up beside me on the countertop. He prefers the Italian roast, the rich, dark brew and the bold aroma that filters through the home, but usually I brew her favorite Columbian blend with its lighter, acidic sweetness. Sometimes they will keep both roasted beans in the apartment at once and change out their choice depending on the day. What a convenience I provide them as they quickly toss out the old filter and switch me on, the daily routine beginning with my provision. I enjoy this routine in their cozy apartment, their lives. 

——

One day, though, while the breaking light in the morning sky whispers of spring, I find myself back in my box. Well, a box. Not the one from years ago, but another one expertly labeled in bleeding marker, “coffee.” I had watched the couple begin to pack up all their mismatched plates and forks and knickknacks, and I wondered when I would be next. For a couple days time I anxiously listen to the mysterious bustle and bumping around me, beginning to grieve for the warmth and routine of the apartment kitchen.

Suddenly, my box is opened as I acquaint myself with my new home, their new home, and the lovely bright kitchen. It’s larger than that of the apartment, but still cozy. It grows cozier as the couple unpack their plates and mugs and tablecloth. I am in front of a window now, and I can see the green yard and large tree out front. The woman rejoices just like the day she first unpacked me, chattering on about how lucky we are to be in the new ranch-house, how it’s perfect for a family. A ranch house, then. The chirping of birds and the stomping of joggers on the road outside replace the familiar din of traffic, but I enjoy it. I am compact and easy to travel with, and I am glad they brought me along, having only kept me boxed up for the few days in the midst of the move. Soon enough, I am plugged in again and performing my brewing duties every morning like clockwork, like the little hands of my timer, always right on time. 

My routine picks up right where it left off in the apartment, but the woman now sits at the table with her partner. She starts setting me up with a new decaffeinated brew and only drinking a single cup in the mornings and none when she returns from work. She tells stories of going out every morning to the cafe across the neighborhood before she bought me, the journey, the money she’d spend. She says she loved the style of the cafe and that they always served great espresso, but she loves her mornings here, at home, even better as I make her cup each day. She says that she’d hate to walk that far every day for coffee now and that they need the extra money anyways. She does seem more awkward on her feet lately, unable to hop onto the counter as easily as she did before. She’s bigger around the middle too, and the man holds her just a bit closer, grabbing blankets and baskets and plates from her arms anytime she would try to pick them up.

Soon enough, though, the woman is back to her two cups of regular Columbian roast a day, and the kitchen is filled with the sounds of crying and cooing and high, light laughing. I love that I can help her with her morning coffee at least, easy as ever, as she tries to accomplish countless things at once. Iced mug in one hand so to not risk spilling the hot coffee as her other hand scoops fine, cream-colored powder into a bottle to shake with water, the little baby strapped to her chest in a brightly colored scarf.

Her little girl smiles every morning as the woman carries her into the kitchen that smells warmly of the freshly brewed pot she put on earlier. The girl often reaches for the woman’s mug, and she jokes that the girl is just waiting to join her with a cup of her own at the table one day. One time she does dip her pinky into a lukewarm cup and lets the girl try a drop. Her scrunched face and frown express her distaste, and I am disappointed for a moment that I made her unhappy. But the woman laughs, and the little girl continues to reach for the mug, so maybe I didn’t make a mistake after all. The little girl joins the couple every day at the table with their coffees, sometimes in their arms, sometimes their laps, sometimes strapped into a high plastic chair between them, but she always joins us in the kitchen. First, her wispy blonde hair is clipped in large bows, then in curling pigtails right at her ears as she moves from the high chair to the third kitchen chair. They still often hold her, but now she runs through the kitchen most mornings, laughing loudly and babbling. I watch her outside in the afternoons too, always dressed in bright overalls or sweaters, and often mismatched socks, once or twice mismatched shoes. I still hear the birds, but I also hear her and the other little ones that come to run around the big tree and play in the grass.

She grows taller and taller. Soon, she is almost as tall as the countertop where I stay plugged in, looking up at my warm carafe of coffee and bright holder. She is still too little to have a cup. The woman says that when she can pour her own she can try it, but she whispers it’ll be decaf behind her hand with a grin.

——

The little girl isn’t so little anymore. She springs into the kitchen, now, looking just as the young woman first did all those years ago, her blonde hair a little darker, a little longer. But each morning she still sits with me as she drinks her coffee from the same handmade mug with cute red mushrooms painted on it that she brought home months ago from the market. She made sure the woman kept her word, and as soon as the girl could pour her own cupful, she joined them at the table with her coffee. I almost boiled with joy knowing that I could finally make her a perfect cup too! It took her a few tries, but eventually, with enough milk, she began exclaiming how much she loved the hot coffee every morning. Usually the man or woman would make half a pot of their typical Columbian or Italian before she was awake and would then make another small pot of decaf just for her. The girl has been talking about going away lately, to college, I believe, which I think is another school but farther away. She hasn’t been to school for a couple years, but now she wants to go more than anything and study to be a writer. I’ll miss her cheery presence every day, but she seems happy when she talks about leaving and always says she will make sure to visit. 

Today, she brings in two arm loads of shopping bags filled with all the things she needs before she leave. Fluffy blankets and matching sheets, a bendy lamp, and a mushroom-shaped pillow that matches her mug. She leaves these on the table, but she brings over one box, opening it up, before setting it next to me. She says something about needing to figure out how to use it and that she’s already bought some cups for it. The little machine looks kind of like me, but smaller, more streamlined, with more plastic bits. I watch as the girl pours water from her mushroom mug into the open machine before placing it on a platform where the machine sits open. It doesn’t even need grounds! They must still be there, but I don’t see them, just the little divot for the small covered cup she places beneath a sharp needle before closing the top. I hear the slight whirring, similar to mine as I work my brewing magic automatically and, sure enough, a lovely dark brew pours into the mug, a perfect cupful! The slight bittersweet aroma of the roasted beans wafts over the countertop. She says the little machine is perfect for her dorm room, apparently smaller than even that cozy apartment where I first arrived. I think back to the fancy French percolator I sat next to in the shop once upon a time. My automating brewing and I had seemingly changed everything about the stories of coffee it told me, and now this little automatic machine just for the girl proves the magic as the woman smiles over at the three of us, clutching the mushroom mug of coffee her girl just handed her close to her heart.