I haven’t meant to ignore you for the last 4 years. But you see, I was given a single serve Nespresso machine for a wedding gift by some tall foreign people. So I put you away. Out of sight, out of mind. Underneath the counter, next to the vertical chicken roaster. You should feel bad for the old roaster because he is destined to go to Goodwill. You see, my husband cooks chicken for a living and I don’t have to clean him when he is done. He cleans himself.
But you, my dear, are staying here. And I want to explain why.
Since I received my Nespresso machine, I have used it religiously, even going on line every few months to order the capsules for $.55 per cup. Expensive but delicious and easy to use. Fast and with no clean up.
But then, a month ago, a dear cousin gave me a special coffee that can not be used in my Nespresso. It’s from New Orleans and is called Community Coffee. Oh Bialetti, it even has chicory root in it. And I just knew that it would taste perfect coming out of you.
So after 4 long years, I brought you out, my dear Moka Express, and lovingly cleaned you. And once again fell in love with your Italian engineering. The durable aluminum. The fact that you only have three parts and don’t need a paper filter. That you make two perfect cups of coffee at a time. That you are pleasing to look at.
While I was cleaning you, memories of my time spent in Italy started running through my head. The bar where I first had a real espresso. The Italian man who pinched my rear end as I placed my order. Un café, per favore? How I had to pay for you when I ordered. The way I drank you down in one shot as if my hunger for you had been raging for days and was unquenchable.
And I remembered how badly I used to wish that I was Italian and not Lithuanian. The fashion, the culture, the men and, of course, the mozzarella. But I digress.
Let’s go back to the other morning, when you were almost virginal, dry and unused for so long: I filled your bottom compartment, up to the line, with fresh, cool water. Then my Bialetti, I inserted the metal filter and filled it with Community Coffee. After that, I screwed your top on. Tightly of course. I wouldn’t want any of the precious coffee to leak out of you.
Then I put you on my ceramic top stove and cranked it up to high. I wasn’t sure how you would react. It had been so long. But after a few minutes, I heard that familiar sound of the water gurgling up and in to your holding receptacle.
And I smelled you. Hot metal, fresh coffee. Oh how I missed that smell. After heating up my fat-free milk in the microwave, I poured half of your contents in to my mug. Then I drank. Greedily. Oh, Bialetti, your liquid was so hot I could feel it make its way down my throat and in to my stomach. The purity of your taste, unencumbered by the bitter residue that remains on some other coffee makers but not on your aluminum. Clean. Tight.
As I sat down to read my newspapers and drink my perfect cup of coffee, I felt like I was home again. Which of course, I was. It was first thing in the morning and I was still in my pajamas. But Bialetti, you know what I mean. What I’m trying to say. I missed you. And I’m glad you’re back.
But please don’t tell Nespresso. His days may be numbered. In addition to being expensive, he has begun to leak ever so slightly. He doesn’t understand English and I’ve never been to Switzerland. Though I hear they make good chocolate.
You Bialetti Moka Express are my true coffee love. Strong and pure. Masculine. Italian. The lover I always wanted until I found my Polish one. But don’t be jealous. They only make kielbasa and pierogi. No coffee and of course there are all of those light bulb jokes.
Ti amo Bialetti. Tu sei appeso come un mulo.