Last summer, I broke the carafe on my coffee pot. As I fished a spice jar from a cabinet above the trusty Senor Coffee, the small glass of basil or garam masala slipped from my hand. The spidering crack ended the long career of an appliance I viewed as indispensable.

Nine months later I haven’t bought another one, and it’s changed the way I drink coffee – for the better, I think.

A French press now fills that niche. As a device, it is both more simple and more involved. And that has brought the ritual back to my mornings.

You take the coffee, add it to the carafe, pour over hot water and push down the plunger. Done. The resultant blackness tastes buttery compared to its drippy cousin, and actually has crema like a good espresso pull.

The French press lacks a clock, doesn’t even have an LED. Unlike its predecessor, it lacks an alarm. I cannot wake me up from the other room with the smell of hot java. But, I have no plans to buy a new drip coffee maker. Mornings move a little slower now, and I like that.