On this, the eve of St. Valentine’s Day–holiday I resent the most–I’d like to profess my love for that which comforts me the most.
Oh, how I adore thee, dear Moka Pot. My little love bucket. My ever faithful brewer of coffee. My precious percolator.
Moka Pot and I got it goin’ on. We’ve had this thing for oh, about seven months now. We met at Ikea and when I saw him there on the shelf, I knew it was love.
And waking up the next morning was even better. In fact, every morning since has been glorious (provided there’s coffee in the house). Moka Pot makes a fab americano. Moka pot takes real good care of me.
On the eve of a holiday as ridiculous as Valentine’s, where folks are made to believe they should buy something for their loves in order to show their fondness for one another (and, worse, made to belive they should spend a pretty penny on consumable or perishable items in order to avoid making their honeys mad), I feel pretty danged lucky to be able to share my love with an inanimate object.
Of course, Moka Pot doesn’t care what I say about him.
But I’m telling you now, I love him. I do, I do, I do.