The bliss of good enough— an ode to my moka pot

It's early and unpleasant, and I am woefully uncaffinated. I brave my way through my small apartment towards the kitchen. My back and my left hip ache. I am getting older; crankier. The steady march of time is steadily kicking my ass, a situation I am most keenly aware of in the early mornings.

I spoon coffee grounds into the aluminum filter, careful not to spill any on the counter. I always spill coffee grounds on the counter. Admittedly, preparing coffee was a much tidier affair when I used a Keurig.