Making coffee

Made a double-shot espresso to rid my afternoon headache, fulfilling a promise I made to my kid brother that I'd use his Breville and take care of it when he's gone.

Sean is with Hannah's family on vacation in the Visayas, visiting beaches and zoos. He sends me photos of Cebuano dogs, confirming my hypothesis: the canines there look sleepy. Could it be due to their proximity to the sea, which cures all problems, including insomnia?

He's relishing his last days in the country. Spending quality time with his wonderful wife and in-laws is a great idea. This past week, Sean brought home many prized possessions from their rented apartment: such as his adjustable gamer chair in faux leather, his collection of keyboards (they're supposed to work in Macs, too, with a little tweaking), his plastic box of electric wires and extension cords, all cleaned and organized. In this respect, among many others, Sean and I are vastly different. I would throw all things inside a baul, whereas Sean would meticulously label, fold, and arrange them. He says I'm not careful with my things. I tell him to look at my iPad Mini, my Kindle, and my MacBook Air—which all remain functional many years after their arrival, even if they bear battle scars from my carelessness.

His espresso maker now occupies the kitchen counter, near the piano keyboard. Beside it stands his fancy grinder. Around these machines are coffee paraphernalia, such as the metal container he expressly told me to pump thoroughly so as to create a vacuum, a condition which supposedly preserves the coffee beans. A stickler for rules, he told me to weigh the beans before I grind them ("18 grams, that's enough," he said). 

Am I having serious separation anxiety? I will remember them each time I have coffee. My double-shot espresso tastes heavenly, a conclusion he will contest, if Sean were here. And who would appreciate my home made yogurt, if not for Hannah?