Coffeemaker introduces oneself

For an inveterate espresso slurper like myself, it's always been a little odd that I don't have a means of producing the slurry brew at home. Two reasons, really -- generally I like to leave the Production of Essentials to the experts -- I don't sew my own jeans or tinker with my own transmission, so I tend to hold that in matters of americanos and machiatos, a barista will do a much less makeshift job than I will. And I like the social process of coffee procurement -- my morning chat with Alan and Evelyn at Moonbean is part of what grounds me in my neighbourhood.

There's also the Cautionary Tale of the refurbished espresso machine my ex once bought me for my birthday. Seemed like a good idea, but it incrementally edged my espresso consumption up to a point where I started to feel some kind of brain activity that my alarmist GP thought merited a neurologist, and months of pointless tests were made with no conclusion (well, a completely outrageous diagnosis of "idiopathic epilepsy," but with not a single seizure detected) until I finally had the brilliant thought that it had to do with sleep and coffee. Stopped drinking coffee for a month et voila, weird perception states ceased.

Since then, I've thought it best to control my intake by being able to measure out the number of times I actually hand over $2.65 to someone holding forth on a big, gorgeous hissing machine.

But F keeps nudging me about getting a better means of actually making coffee at home -- the french press really just doesn't do it -- and while jauntily hopping out to get myself a double americano before working on a Tuesday morning provides a nice little demarcation between asleep and work time when you work at home, it's more problematic on a Saturday morning when you really don't want to get dressed. Plus, his "Herculattes" cost more than twice as much as my fairly austere little americanos. And he'll slurp them throughout the day.

So. Yesterday I sprung for a sweet italian stovetop 6 cup stainless steel brewer thingy. With no clue how to actually USE it, I blithely turned to the instructions. That they seemed to be in 9 different languages was the first clue that the translation might be a bit ramshackle... and the first english header -- "coffeemaker introduces oneself" -- confirmed it. My new Vev Vigano boasts a "hillow" column for pouring of coffee. It apparently has a gender -- I'm asked to remove my "Miss Vev" Coffeemaker from the flame. And coffee "sprouts." (I'm actually not sure what the right word IS, come to think of it -- "blend thicker first-sprouted coffee with lighter coffee sprouted afterwards").

There is also apparently some complicated inaugural period involving washing the Miss Vev with soda and bicarbonate (what IS that? I remember bicarbonate from the Archie comics of my youth, but does it still exist? perhaps it's a Euro thing?), and allowing multiple sproutings of coffee to burst up and be tossed aside without drinking, to allow the coffee aroma to soak into the pot.

There aren't actually any instructions on how to *make* the coffee. It's Very Very Complicated. And Italian. Maybe I should have bought the Contessa (twice as much but very pretty), but I'm sure she would snub me as well. My Miss Vev -- more of a commoner, but just as elusive. I'll admire her pretty lines as I sip just one more americano sprouted by Alan, turning to wikipedia or google for a more mundane description of the process.