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.

I set the stove to medium-low. You can achieve a faster brew with higher heat, though I find you get something closer to espresso when the water has more time to mingle with the coffee grounds. Otherwise, the steam expels the bean water through to the next chamber too fast and you get a weaker cup. That may be just fine for some, but I want my coffee to kill me, thank you very much.

I make Cuban-style coffee—whisk three generous spoonfuls of brown sugar with the first few drops of coffee that pour out the chimney (crema), until you achieve a frothy consistency. Listen to the metallic melody of the spoon slapping against the ceramic mug. Good, right? Then, add the rest of your coffee, with milk or creamer to your liking, stir lightly, and voilà—Cuban coffee.

Justa like mama Cubana used to make 🤌.

In my 43 years on this earth I've owned every coffee maker imaginable—from your standard paper filter pots to highly intricate machines. I've had coffee makers with touchscreens that spoke to me and automatically started brewing my coffee in the mornings. I've enjoyed coffee made from a fifty thousand dollar espresso machine (thanks MailChimp corporate office). All made great coffee, and in some cases better coffee, than my current method.

But, I love my moka pot. It doesn't need much to be happy. There are no consumable items I must remember to buy so that it continues working (besides coffee grounds). It doesn't ask me about WiFi or Bluetooth connections, or if I'd like to update its firmware. I can't tweet, or receive notifications from it.

My moka pot doesn't have a companion app for me to log my coffee consumption habits (thank goodness). It doesn't require DRM coffee pods, or a monthly coffee subscription. It doesn't email me about the latest moka pot models; I don't even know who makes it. All my moka pot does is push water from one chamber to the other when heat is applied, and if coffee grounds happen to be packed inside, it then turns that water into a piping hot cup of joe.

My moka pot is the product of some Italian guy's imagination, and not a board room of venture capitalists who wear sweater vests and talk about “cornering the market.” And because of that fact, my moka pot's design is timeless. Long after all the “Internet of Things” coffee makers are rotting away in some landfill (or under the rubble of a lost civilization) the humble moka pot will be there, ready to make someone a good-enough cup of coffee.

I think about this more than you'd think. I have a moka pot tattooed on my forearm, as a little nod to well-designed things; as an ode to a time when we made things because they made people's lives a little better. Those things still exist, and the moka pot on my arm is a reminder not to get too caught up in the technology carnival (which I'm prone to doing).

So, every morning, without fail, I do this little deliberate thing. Spoon the grounds. Light the stove. Watch the pot. Whisk the sugar. The process takes twelve minutes from start to first sip, and requires my full attention. If I miss the exact moment coffee begins to pour into the top chamber, I lose the opportunity to mix the crema with the sugar, and that would be a shame.

I get the sense that the people trying to sell us things every waking minute of every single day would prefer we live our lives on autopilot. Don't you? Everything we interact with is tethered to the cloud— automated, analyzed, and monitored for us.

And I don't mean to turn my nose up at anyone who uses a fancy coffee maker. Do what makes you happy. It's just, this morning ritual is a small part of my life that feels...analog, if you will. It forces me to take the wheel and steer for a moment. There's something precious about it that I wish I could replicate across the rest of my daily life.

It's 7:30 in the morning. I'm sitting outside with a cigarette in my mouth and a warm mug in my hand. I'm watching the crows fly from tree to tree. My back hurts a little less.

And no one, other than me, knows I made this cup of coffee. Well, now, you all know it. Because I just shared it with you on my blog...

Well, fuck.