It's 5:02 AM here in the 'Zarks, and my French press is busted. You heard me. Stone busted, as in cracked and leaking. Why? Because I live in a rural area of the country, where a decent French press is rare as hen's teeth and a decent dark roast is much farther away than the corner grocery. My corner grocery is a gas station that doesn't open until six - and the corner? It's almost two miles away. Oh, the humanity.

This morning's options to quell my caffeine addiction: Cut-rate grocery roast in the coffeepot my mother-in-law gave me (she does not understand the beauty of actual coffee), or four headache tablets. Sad, right? I KNOW. When I was fourteen, my dad got me espresso at Windows on the World, and I've never looked back. I don't just want good coffee - I require it to live.

It's true. I'm a coffee snob. I have taste buds and know how to use them. I also have a wicked caffeine addiction. This comment would be so much better if I had a cup of Superba. Or three cups, because let's be real - I can go through a press an hour. All day long. And once I love your coffee, I'll buy nothing else. Once hooked, I'm loyal to the point of evangelism. Hallelujah!

So please, for the love of a decent cup, do it for your fellow world citizen. Do it for justice. Do it for freedom, and the right of every American to indulge the coffee snob that lives in each of us, buried under the weight of mass advertising for inferior blends. Or just do it for me, because I'd sell my car for a great roast right now.

With love and a major coffee jones,
Imp

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