Today my French press broke and I started crying. So here's this post to record the fact. I'm writing about this mostly because I can't remember the last time I cried from sadness rather than anger or frustration. It must have been years ago.
And yet this French press.... I brought it back with me from England just a little over ten years ago. I carried it across large portions of the British countryside in a backpack, carefully stuffed with t-shirts and clean socks. When I travelled around the country after college it came with me. I made tea in it, and coffee. I've had it almost as long as I've had anything. I've had it longer than I've had my car. I think it was the first kitchen thing I ever bought that I still have. Had.
I wasn't even home when it cracked.
I'm half-reluctant to get a new one and yet ... the coffee it made was so much better than from the drip machine that I'm equally inclined to replace it as soon as possible.
Meanwhile, here's this photo. I haven't put my finger on exactly why it means so much to me. I haven't come up with a reason it shouldn't, either.
