Bakker Bugle Blog Say it three times fast. In Luxembourgish.

I wouldn’t say that I’m a coffee snob. Still, several years ago, I switched from a drip coffeemaker to a french press and I frequently ground whole coffee beans. I developed strong opinions about the differences among gourmet retail coffee chains, and I could not abide old-fashioned diner coffee. Through rigorous experimentation, I determined whether to store my coffee beans in the freezer or in the pantry. If you saw me with black stuff in my mug, you could expect a certain level of quality.

But now that we have our first overnight guest, I’ve been outed. I may as well go public with my shame.

I occasionally drink instant coffee.

I’m not sure how it happened. I guess … Well, you know that I’m eager to try new foods, experiences, and so on, given my new environment. I was in the supermarket, and I was amused by the categories that had a wide variety of brands, where in the US, one would find only a few. For example, there are dozens of kinds of peas available in every supermarket I’ve seen. It’s a little less surprising that there are so many kinds of potatoes.

Well, I was taken aback by the wall of instant coffee in the back of the store. I was alone there — nobody was watching. And one brand was French! Instant coffee was almost…cool. It seemed like everyone was doing it.

So I bought a small glass canister of the brown crystals. It felt smooth in my hand and it had a satisfying weight to it. Still, I used the self-checkout when I finished shopping.

A few mornings later, my bleary eyes fell upon my french press, unwashed from the day before. I couldn’t bear to dispose of the grounds right then, and my situation seemed hopeless.

I hadn’t thought of my illict purchase since I returned from the grocery store. But once I saw it, that little glass canister seemed like my savior. I thought it was the answer.

And now, weeks later, I’m a regular user of the Brown Junk. Oh, sure, I still go to the retail coffee chains and buy espresso-based drinks. But before I leave the house, those brown pearls beckon me.

The little explosion when the boiling water hits the shining, crystal mound at the bottom of the cup. The surging coffee smell, which hits you all at once, without the acidic warning of dry grounds that squares take for granted. The foam, which looks so much like real crema. When you see it appear in an instant, faster than a barista can start any machine, you think you’ve got it made. It never satisfies like the real thing, but in my life, it’s the closest I can get sometimes.

I’d kicked the Tan Tramp for about a week, until yesterday. I was on the train with Cindy and Anita, and this little guy comes down the aisle with his cart. He looks like a straight arrow, with his uniform and all. I ask for a coffee. He picks out a cup, and holds it under a little nozzle. It wasn’t until I lifted the stuff to my lips that I realized — he just made me instant coffee. It was too late. I’m using again — twice today.

My teeth are probably etched from the sugar that I use to cut the final product. I’ve moved up, and now I’m buying bigger jars from my source. I’m thinking about cutting out the middleman and getting the good stuff straight from France. Maybe making instant coffee for my fellow users, to subsidize my own habits. I bet I can make a few quid out of this situation, maybe save enough to go straight, get a little shop of my own, you know, a normal life.

Anita bought a gift for me, and Cindy brought it in her luggage. It’s a lovely new chef’s knife. See how pretty it is?

About six weeks ago, Anita discovered that she loves my guacamole. (It’s a very simple recipe, but she insists that it’s “Will’s Special Guacamole” — so sappy.) She craves it constantly, and always brings home avocados from the store. Making the guacamole is easy, but Anita likes the onions diced small. And my best knife was a serrated knife.

To cut the onions, I would move it back and forth. It’s such a simple machine, I don’t have to use force.

Nevertheless, the serrated edge would mash the onions rather than dice them, and leave some parts held together by a bit of translucent skin. Enter my new chef’s knife, and voila: Dicing Bliss.

It’s an aspirational purchase. In other words, my cooking skills are not worthy of this knife. I need to learn how to dice properly, first. I must become One with the knife. I will not control the knife, but I will be responsible for what it cuts. I will wield the knife when my thoughts are pure and full of beauty. Only then will I mince the garlic.