A few days ago my coffee-maker went to kitchen appliance heaven, and in retrospect, the gurgling finale of that final pot sounded exactly like a death-rattle. This could have been a huge problem because coffee is my drug, my life, nectar for my creativity, and the fuel that I convert into words. Indeed, post-coital coffee has always made more sense to me than a cigarette. So yeah; the sudden absence of a coffee-maker could have been massively problematic in a DTs / detox sort of way: Me, fetal-positioned in a corner, imagining coffee beans swarming across the walls. Indisputably nasty business.

But the thing is, I never much liked my recently deceased coffee-maker–in truth, it’s annoyed me for two years now. (Yes, I actually wore the thing out in 24 months, so you’re right in slightly stepping away from me.) It was a brushed-chrome Cuisinart with retro-cool Thomas Dolby gauges: vague ’30s Modernism with a Steampunk undercurrent. And, of course, this is the problem–even now, after having pulled the plug on the Cuisinart, I’m still describing it in terms of aesthetics, which is more than a little dodgy since it should be all about the distillation of a caffeine-delivery system.

I admit it, Dear Visitor–I was seduced: I should have been thinking about how it would function on the chosen countertop location. I should have anticipated whether the inherent demands of the thing would rankle over time. But I didn’t. Its glowing, brushed beauty spoke to the lizard-brain that routes around the assessment of good industrial design. There in the showroom, I fell victim to its siren song; it was like a tall, slim blonde making deceptively interesting conversation. I was smitten. I boldly picked it up and took it home with me, where we spent the weekend together. And, come Monday, well, it was still there on the counter and, still infatuated, I saw no need for it to keep its box and styrofoam packing.

Over the next two years, however, I began to learn that most cliched of lessons–that sometimes beauty is only chromium-skin-deep. The Cuisinart set the agenda–my interactions with it demanded I move it to the edge of the counter, even as I struggled with what turned out to be a too-short power cord. The hinged top was always banging into the microwave suspended above it. The thing also required that water be poured in from the top and just next to its right side–in the ensuing months, I became resigned to wiping up the counter every other pot. And then there was the daily cleaning of the mesh coffee grounds basket and also the quarterly changing of the water filter (because the Cuisinart insisted on practicing Safe Brewing ). To be fair, the coffee the Cuisinart made was very good, but ultimately not good enough to out-weigh my daily, awkward dance with it.

Looking back, I’m certain there was no commitment problem on my part; during our first weekend together, I’d been very clear about what I was looking for–excellent coffee with minimum effort–Zipless Caffeine, if you will. And the Cuisinart had kept a diplomatic silence that seemed to signal agreement, even as the halogen lights from the range hood glinted provocatively across its Dolby-esque dials, distracting me with the desire to sing a few choruses of “She Blinded Me With Science,” or maybe even “Leipzig.” I guess that, despite what happened later, we’ll always have that weekend of infatuated coffee-making . . .

But now the Cuisinart is gone and, as grim as this sounds, it’s probably for the best. Had it not expired, I’d have dumped it. Harsh, I know, but true. We were only going through the coffee-making motions, the Cuisinart and I. It was becoming progressively difficult and I was increasingly impatient and, yes, ogling other coffee-makers. Sleek, low-maintenance beauties that wanted what I wanted: toe-curling, hair-tossing, shudder-inducing Good Coffee. And why not? I’m still young enough; my coffee-drinking days certainly aren’t behind me.

Caution, though, is indicated. I’m determined not to get into a rebound relationship. I want to play the field for a while; check-out my options. It’s hardly surprising, then, that for the near-term, I’ve gotten back together with an ex-coffee-maker. In the recycling bin, the housing of the Cuisinart was hardly cold before I’d loped down to the basement to reconnect with my old Chemex. The Chemex and I had been together for quite a long time in my youth; we’d even gotten experimental with our coffee-making–how to say this discreetly?–the roasting and brewing practices of Other, Exotic Lands sometimes entered into our sessions . . .French Breakfast, need I say more?

So yeah, the Chemex and I currently have a good thing going: lab glass, unbleached filter paper, boiling water, fresh-ground beans. End of story. Good for the Chemex and certainly good for me. We’ve established an open relationship, meaning I can have dalliances with other brewing systems, while it’s free to participate in any basic lab work it wants and even more exotic things, like heating milk for mashed potatoes. Though I’ve no idea where all this going, I can see always having a little Chemex on side–I’m anxious not to repeat the quiet desperation of the past two years. Sorry, Cuisinart, but I’m so over you . . .