French Press

A mobile domicile housing someone homeless parked itself in the neighborhood across the street from the park. It had a set-up unlike any one I'd observed in The New American Diaspora and that's saying a lot because I take note of such unique things.

It immediately arrested my attention on my morning stroll.

The set-up: a decent green van (meaning all the windows intact with no duct tape) rested near a brand new windowless trailer of the type a contractor might use to build trophy homes for one rich person. A canopy stretched between the van and the trailer. Under the canopy stood a waist-high, shining steel two-burner grill fueled by propane. It was a food magazine-worthy picture of a a glam outdoor cooking kitchen, complete with utensils poking out of mason jars and handpicked wildflowers in vases.

I almost forgot to mention the five big dogs roaming in and around the van and the trailer as their master worked on the van's engine. He looked exactly like the blonde, blue-eyed Jesus of my vacation Bible school workbooks where I got to draw pictures of the Red Sea swallowing the Egyptian army and a pariah tax collector up in a tree listening to a sermon by the Savior.

It was then I noticed something I'd never seen in connection to a residence of a homeless person—a French press sitting on an improvised counter of the kitchen. The coffee was in there just waiting to be pressed. A French press! A homeless man driving a van pulling a trailer and living with five big dogs was making his morning coffee with a French press!

Preposterous! Beautiful! Poignant. I marveled at it all.

It occurred to me standing there watching this scene unfold that French press is my favorite type of coffee. I own an expensive vintage press, a gift from a dear friend decades ago, and never use it. I guess I don't have the patience for it.