Taming the Press

A glass French press was sitting dead center on the counter, steeped dark and waiting. The round steel plunger knob stuck straight up—an open invitation. I vaulted onto the cutting board, hopped to the counter, and planted both boots square on the stainless lid. Grabbed the metal knob with both hands and drove my weight straight down. The mesh filter fought back against the dense grounds, stiff and stubborn. I locked my knees, leaned hard into the resistance, and rode the shaft all the way down until it clunked flat against the glass base. Steamy dark roast trapped tight beneath the screen. That is how you earn your morning.