When I got it home I looked up and printed out the manual. I went over the parts photograph, identifying parts. Saw a few missing.
Yesterday I went to my friendly neighborhood Starbucks to ask about one of these parts, the cup that holds the espresso grind. That store did not have one but the manager recommended that I check downtown, said that is the major retail Starbucks in the area. He would order the cup if I preferred, however. No, I said I'd check downtown. I asked about the pods, though, and bought a box of coffee pods.
So I found myself downtown, leaving my car in the parking building with this one goal to fill. I went to Starbucks. I found the pitcher that holds the milk and I asked about the little cup. The person went into the back to hunt, didn't know what was available. She came out a bit later with the cup, saying "Usually we have to sell the whole set, but today you get it free!"
Wow! I was on my way.
It doesn't do to rush these things, though. When I got home I read through the instructions for "priming the pump", and did the first part, which is to rinse out the water container, clean parts. And I left it that way last night.
During the night I woke or dreamed of making espresso. I saw the instructions for steaming the milk, which I had also read, in my mind. I figured I would complete that priming this morning. So it was the first thing I was thinking about when I got up. No, not quite the first thing. Thinking about coffee had brought to mind my mother's coffee and my stepmother's and the differences. I woke wondering if my mother's way of making and drinking coffee could possibly have been a reaction to the way my stepmother did these things, because they are so opposite. My stepmother carefully made a drip coffee, using a Melitta drip cone, and she insisted that coffee be drunk black. My mother used a percolator and put cream and sugar into hers. Why, I wonder now, would you make the choice on the percolator in particular, unless it is a reaction to someone you detested? All my life my mother threw out little barbs at my stepmother and father. Clearly she never saw the need to get over it.
For my part I went with Elizabeth, my stepmother. I saw the superiority of the drip system rather quickly, even after being raised with the perc. Or maybe because of. I also went with gas stoves. My stepmother had a Chambers gas stove, a machine from heaven, infinitely adjustable. It didn't take any time for me to see the advantage of that over my mother's electric stoves, which, again, I had grown up with.
I primed the pump this morning. Then I unplugged the machine and set it on the table. Tonight I'll go all the way.