Coffee on a Rushed Morning
I once made two bad cups in a row while running late and drank neither of them. What I do now on the mornings there is no time, why rushing a slow method is worse than not doing it, and the flat rule I decided in advance.
I once made two bad cups in a row while running late and drank neither of them. What I do now on the mornings there is no time, why rushing a slow method is worse than not doing it, and the flat rule I decided in advance.
There is a chair in my bedroom that was supposed to be for reading, and it has held a pile of half-worn clothes for six years instead. This is what I stopped trying to fix about it, and the one small thing I did change.
I ran a cheap set and an expensive set on the same bed for a year and paid attention. Where the cheap one lost, where it quietly won, and the costly thing I regret buying most.
My hallway floor repeats its wood grain every eleven planks and the kitchen cupboards catch every fingerprint. Neither is mine to replace. Here is what I stopped fighting in a rented flat, and the two reversible things that helped most.
Someone handed me two cups and asked which I preferred, and I invented an answer on the spot. Here is the honest list of what I can actually detect, what is completely invisible to me, and why admitting it was a relief.
My sister stayed six weeks in a flat where the kettle is three metres from the spare room door. What broke, what turned out fine, and the piece of information about my own routine that I did not particularly want.
The same beans tasted better in my sister’s kitchen four mornings running. It took me two weeks of blaming the grinder before I looked inside my own kettle and found the answer crusted onto the element.
A blue bowl broke on the kitchen tiles in February and sat on the windowsill in four pieces for eleven days. What I have learned about repairing things badly, and about the things I have decided are not worth repairing at all.
A worn sheet is not rubbish and it is not a keepsake either. What I do with linen once it has gone through at the corners, which second lives have been worth the scissors, and which ones I quietly abandoned.
My front room has never once had direct sun on the floor, in any season, at any hour. After three years of trying to brighten it I stopped, and started working with what it actually is instead.
The hour before the day starts.
Written and edited by Elise Fontaine.
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