Espresso Love

I can’t believe I’ve reached the point in my caffeine addiction where seeing a price of $1795 for an espresso machine doesn’t make me laugh at the very idea that someone would spend that kind of money on a machine that isn’t even self-cleaning. That’s more than I spent on my flat screen TV. More than I spent on my laptop. The espresso machine does nothing to simplify my life. It doesn’t organize my files or help me do my taxes. But, it provides a truly priceless service brewing shot after shot of deep, dark, pleasantly bitter espresso topped with that beautiful, frothy, chestnut head of crema. It produces that blissful aroma that says, “wow, this is going to be a great day!”

Now that I’ve read news on Wired.com that says periodic small shots of caffeine are better for me than large doses, I could classify that $1795 as healthcare.

Do I need more reasons? Look at the thing. It’s like the Viggo Mortensen of espresso machines. Gorgeous, well-proportioned, vaguely exotic. Not like those hulking machines that spread across half your counter, or the ones that are all switches and lights with a skinny little wand. This one has two substantial wands, one for steamed milk and one for hot water. How considerate. And I love the way the two knobs on the front seem to wink at me.

How much do I want this machine? How much do babies want milk? How much does a dog want to sniff crotch?

I know it's unfair to my current, hard-working Rancilio Silva, which may actually make a better shot. But how can it compete with its boxy utilitarian design that looks more like something I'd find in an auto repair shop? It had to know a machine like Rocket Giotto would come along one day.

Crazy Ugly, Or Crazy Awesome?

I’ve always believed the reclining chair to be among the uglier innovations the furniture world, second only to the bean bag chair perhaps. But a recent pedicure experience at the spa forced me to rethink my anti-Lazy-Boy stance. I was ushered in to a small, dimly lit room, soothed by the sound of water bubbling over smooth stones and the gentle tones of some ambient music (is that a Darbuka?). And there it was, the throne of leisure, an overstuffed, umber-toned, velour, reclining chair. I settled in. It was not what I expected. There were no cigarette burns in the arms. No smell of stale beer. No Dorritos crushed into the seams. It was comfortable. No, it was plush. Then the foot rest went up and I was horizontal, gazing at the Celotex, taking back every unkind word I’d ever directed at the innocent Lazy-Boy whose only wish was to serve a tired backside. An hour later, I lay there, my arms elevated on a fluffy bolster, my feet soaked and pumiced, my toenails sporting a fresh coat of Persimmon Sunrise, trying to figure out where I could put one of these in my house. Then it hits me. I’ve got just the spot. I’ve been meaning to get rid of that bean bag chair anyhow.