A Coffee Tale
My coffee maker dies. Absurd. It was a fancy one that automatically brewed according to a clock timer. Now what am I supposed to do? After a loving look at my bag of locally roasted beans, I suffer through a barefoot walk into the garage, dig deep in a musty cabinet and emerge with instant Folgers. Shudder.
I don’t want microwaved water, so I fill the kettle. At least I’ll get to hear the whistle, a sound that carries nostalgic memories of warm conversations in kitchens past.
It occurs to me that I don’t actually know how to make instant coffee. Or, I should say, I have no idea of the ratio of coffee to hot water. I’m not a total moron. Just a man without a coffee maker. I hunch and read the label. 1 scoop per 6oz of hot water. Three heaping scoops later, I fill my mug.
First sip, uggg. By the end of the mug, the kids and I are having a full-scale dance party at heavy bass volume levels. We are on our 9th song when I remember that I’d intended to clean the house up for New-Years-Eve. The reason I added scoop number three. And I’d just spent all my energy on tricking the kids into exercising indoors.
Three more scoops. Hot water. Try again. I’m deep in the addiction now. I know it. Sweet Folgers. My precious.