Originally published in the Bookends Review in August 2023.

I have an unhealthy obsession with the act of brewing coffee in my Mr. Coffee electric drip coffee machine. Why do I prefer this method to a single-serving Keurig or buying coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts or Starbucks on the way to work?

For one, nostalgia tugs at me, as I remember my deceased parents and how they taught me how to make coffee in the 1970s. When I was young, my dad worked as a salesman at the local Sears store, while my mom started her banking career on the teller line. They were low-income earners, but they never scrimped on the staple of coffee. There was always a canister of coffee and an electric drip coffee maker sitting on the Formica countertop in our kitchen (and in their separate residences after they divorced).

I remember my mother wearing a worried expression on her face every morning as she sat at the kitchen table, her fingers pressed to her forehead as she smoked Salem Light cigarettes and drank coffee from a light blue ceramic mug. She needed coffee to start the day, as if sipping the hot liquid prepared her to endure the responsibilities and financial burdens she confronted.

And while tastes vary, my parents instructed me on how to make a decent blend in the coffee pot. The rules were rigid; if you flouted them, the coffee came out too weak or too strong, and you would need to dump it in the sink and start all over again. And we couldn’t waste coffee in my house. The measurements were three scoops of coffee for every six cups of water, four scoops for eight cups of water—and, if we had company—the ratio went to five and ten or six and twelve.

As an adult, I’ve adjusted this formula to make a stronger blend, but I still relish the quotidian ritual of standing in my kitchen and preparing the coffee maker at night so it’s ready to go when I wake up in the morning.

I love measuring the water, tucking a paper filter in the filter basket, scooping out ground coffee—either Folgers or Maxwell House—smelling the aroma, noting the sound of the metal scoop digging in the plastic canister, dumping the coffee in the filter, and closing the lid.

And my Mr. Coffee coffee maker offers a no-frills, analog, tactile coffee-making experience. There’s no clock, no built-in alarm, no digital displays, no voice activation. The process requires exactness and following an ordered progression. The steps are simple: add water, add coffee, plug in, and turn on.

But this coffee-making ritual has a deeper significance, as you must wait for the coffee to brew. It’s not instantaneous, and the process reminds me of sex. There’s a buildup and a finish as the coffee maker hisses and spits and completes its cycle with a flourish of guttural sounds.

But I also draw a connection between coffee and death. Every time I scoop the coffee and drop it in the filter basket, I am reminded of my mortality. My mind reflects on burial scenes in movies, where family members toss shovelfuls of dirt on top of a coffin containing the body of a loved one. I think, “How many more pots of coffee will I make before I die? When will I take the last sip of coffee brewed in my kitchen?”