I swiped this espresso pot from my first apartment in Rome. I love this thing so much; it’s even earned a pet name from me. Ladies and gentlemen of the World Wide Web, please meet the lovely and talented Fiorella.

Having always had an aversion to espresso, I was more than hesitant when my Scottish roommate offered me a shot one night after dinner. What he served was unbelievable to my ignorant, American palate. What I’d always thought of as being akin to mud, both in taste and texture, brewed by the Scottsman was extraordinarily smooth, nutty, and sweet. I can’t remember that roommate’s name anymore, but he and his girlfriend took me through the steps of making a perfect espresso–using this very pot–as taught to them by their Italian housekeeper.

I’m a little ashamed to say Fiorella is nothing but a cheap proletariat whose provenance is the cheerful, exclamatory, mass-marketed world of Ikea. I could have easily bought an espresso pot just like her anywhere in Europe or stateside, but I was so successfully–and surprisingly–swayed into unparalleled fondness for Italian coffee that night, I was afraid if I didn’t own this very coffee pot I’d be subject to a life of discontent, where I’d forever compare every espresso I had to the one perked by Fiorella.

So, I dragged Fiorella in my roller bag across sloping cobblestone streets from one Roman apartment to another and, when the time came to return to the states, made the decision to ditch a perfectly good pair of red shoes in favor of making space for her in my backpack. It’s a decision I’ve occasionally been sheepish to talk about, but I’ve never regretted it for an instant.