I learned a coffee making tip last summer that I promise you will make good coffee even better. You need to make the coffee with cold water. It’s that simple. I don’t know why it works so well, but for some reason the coffee comes out a bit sharper and the flavor is more defined. Try it next time you make coffee.
That’s not what I came here to tell you though.
So, this morning I wake up with a kid at my door. No biggie. He comes in and gets settled with my kids for breakfast and I walk to the fridge to get the chilled water to get my coffee going. Cold water in the machine, I next open the cabinet to get the cof…
There was no coffee. We’re all out. I stare at the empty spot on the shelf and vaguely recall that a mental note was made to get more, but clearly not followed through on.
I look back at the kids and start to feel a little bit upset. “Just look at them. Eating their toast and drinking their juice. Don’t they even care that I’m having a crisis? They don’t even care. Jerks.”
Back in my bedroom, I tell a sleeping Eric, “Honey? We don’t have any coffeeeeeeee.”
He mumbles something in his pillow and it sounded to me like he was offering to watch the kids while I made the quick half a block stroll to the nearest convenient store to get some. Still in my pjs, I quickly throw on my jogging pants (I DO NOT jog. They were given to me by a jogger), a t-shirt and my trusty Birks and headed off to the store.
The walk there was a bit of a haze. I remember pushing the button to cross the busy intersection, but beyond that I am not certain how it was that I found myself actually pouring the coffee and getting it all mixed up the proper way (LOTS of cream and sugar).
Once I had my first sip of that sweet, sweet, Wag-a-Bag coffee, I came back to reality. I was awake. I was WIDE awake. Wide awake and hanging out at the Wag-a-Bag in stoopid jogging pants and a stained t-shirt. The manager engaged me in a friendly conversation about our mutual need for coffee. I think my disheveled appearance made my desperation obvious.
I paid for my crack coffee and headed out the door, quickly putting my Jackie O. sunglasses on to hide my face before scurrying across the parking lot.
Standing at the street corner and waiting for my signal to cross, I started to notice that I was the only pedestrian in sight. That didn’t strike me as any kind of big deal until I got my signal and started to cross in front of four lanes of heavy morning rush hour traffic.
I was the ONLY pedestrian. The only thing to look at while these motorists passed time waiting for the light to change. I crossed that street with a pretty massive complex. I felt countless eyes burning holes in my ridiculous jogging pants and I was certain that they all noticed the stain on my t-shirt.
I had just made it to the other side when the maintenance man from our apartments saw me and offered me a ride in his sweet golf cart. I accepted, but only because I was desperate to get home and add more creamer to my coffee.
“So, you really needed some coffee, huh Miss Amy?” (The maintenance man has become a dear friend and he calls me Miss Amy.)
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, your shirt’s on backwards and inside out. Looks like you left in a hurry.”
We’re not friends anymore.
I get back upstairs and in my little home, where shirts can be worn however we please as long as they are on, only to find Eric still in bed. He sits up and asks me if we have coffee.
So I poured his down the drain.
Not really. But in my head I did.