The Bitter Cup

A few weeks ago, I switched back to drip.

Not for any grand reason. I just got tired of cleaning the AeroPress. One morning I pulled out the old Mr. Coffee from the back of the cabinet, dusted it off like a forgotten relic, and let it gurgle to life.

It was… fine. A little bitter. A little burnt. But weirdly satisfying.

There’s something comforting about mediocre coffee from a plastic machine. The predictability. The slight disappointment. Like a cheap motel breakfast or a song you secretly love but only listen to when you're alone.

Since then, I’ve stopped fussing over grind size and bloom time. No more kitchen scale. No more arguments about mineral content.

Just water. And beans. And eight mildly depressing cups a day.

I think I’m happier.

But here’s the weird thing.

I started noticing that I liked it more the worse it tasted. There’s something almost defiant about enjoying bad coffee. It’s punk. It’s anti-Third Wave. It’s a middle finger to the algorithmic perfection of everything else in life.

Maybe bad coffee is the last honest thing left.

Turns out, you don’t always need better. Sometimes you just need familiar.

Y.