This machine was a gift, so I can't get rid of it. Every time I go into the kitchen I see this big black hulk hogging up the counter. It's truly menacing.
When I was young I owned a British sports car. I think Americans just like to jump in their cars and go. The British, apparently, have their traditions. Before motoring off on a journey, they need to lift the bonnet, maybe check the plug gap, fiddle with the timing, insure the valve lash is correct, and struggle with one of man's most infernal creations, the SU carburetors. Check all the fluid levels, inspect hoses and wiring, check batteries (my TR-2 and MG both used two six volt batteries hooked up to give 12 volts), check tyre pressures, etc., etc., and some half an hour later you can begin driving. Forego it and it's guaranteed that in 20 minutes you'll be on the side of the road trying to figure out what's wrong. The prelude is part of the experience. It's meant to be enjoyed. Revel in your skill and mechanical knowledge. Set off to the market to pick up those expresso beans you forgot full of confidence, satisfaction, and fully gratified.
I view this as the analog to the coffee machine. You need a few barista skills to work the dang thing, then you can impress your friends, family, and even yourself. Keep your hands busy assembling things, pushing buttons, all the while maintaining your patter about these new beans you've discovered. Part of the experience. Unfortunately all I want to do is gulp the go-juice and get it over with. My cheapo Mr. Coffee makes the stuff in just about two minutes and clean up is just dump the grinds and rinse the little plastic basket.
Thinking is overrated