Der Klang: Kaffee bei Drei Uhr in der Morgen

I am french press (Photo credit: nyoin)

The following is a journal entry for poetry class. We were tasked to write something about our favourite sounds. Hence, the title of the post The Sound: Coffee at 3 o’clock in the Morning. I’m taking up German, so please correct me if I’m wrong :D

There’s something about doing things extremely early in the morning; I don’t usually do things this early. Sleep is an essential part of me. I’m up at this hour because I needed to get things done, but my eyes are falling in on themselves. So, my best bet is to wake myself up with some cups of coffee. That right, cups of coffee, not a cup of coffee. Since 3AM is still pretty quite, what I hear is clear as crystal.

I pick up my step-ladder, trying my best not to make too much noise, but the metal legs still lightly scrape the marble tile floor, like a family of squirrels arguing which nut should go where. I climb up three steps and reach for the cupboard. I open it, and the wood and hinges disagree with each other. Any louder, then they would match my creaky wooden floor in my bedroom. I grab my French press and draw it toward me, I hit some of the china ware, but just slightly, and small muted bells ring in the air.

I come down the steps and put the French press on the marble countertop. I grab the kettle and fill it with water from the faucet sink. This by far is my second most favourite sound in this process. To me, it feels rather zen. Waiting for the kettle to fill up whilst hearing water filling the aluminium body is just really refreshing at 3AM. It’s like a snake’s hiss, trying to enchant me.

After it’s been filled, I popped it on the stove and click the switch. At any time during the day, the stove is drowned out by almost everything, the TV, the computer etc. But at 3AM, the open stove turns to a large crowd of weak voiced people cheering.

While I wait for the kettle to boil, I go to my jars by the microwave, which is right under the cabinet that I’ve just been and grab my coffee. Twisting the jar open reminds me of my grandfather eating those corn kernel chips. I get the coffee measuring spoon by the dishes beside the sink, and scoop one spoon of coffee.

I take the plunger out of the press and tap the spoon inside it, making that same mute sound as I did when I hit some of china, to get all the coffee out.

At 3AM, I could tell if the kettle was about to boil without it whistling my mother awake. The stove would rattle and shake, and the clunkering of the metal caused by the rising boil of the kettle warns me that I’m about to get a deafening screech at this hour.

I let it whistle for about two seconds, then I lower the fire to its minimum. Coffee must be made with freshly boiled coffee, so I keep it boiling ’til I’m ready. I collected my French press and set it near my kettle. Using oven mitts, I slowly pour out the boiling water from the kettle and into the press. I do this slowly, not because I’m being cautious, but because I would want to savour each second of doing it. The sound of hot water pouring into a beaker mixed with the aroma of Barako coffee is simply divine. I stir the top a bit to saturate all the coffee grounds and place the plunger back on top.

After seven minutes, I slowly push the plunger down. This is probably the best part in making coffee. The feel of resistance on the plunger mixed with the sound the metal rod makes as it slips through the hole at the top. Almost like the stove desperate trying to heat a gallon of water.

I pour the coffee in my mug. I hear the trickle of rain.

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