A dear friend and I had several discussions last weekend that focused on home life, the kids, etc. and I remember that she said she sometimes feels like asking her husband, "Are you new here?" I told my friend that I could relate except that usually, I find myself wanting to ask, "Have we met?"
We do not have to be acquainted long before you know at least one important thing about me: I love coffee. It is not a healthy love. It is an all-consuming, addictive kind of jones that can only be cured by a hot, steaming cup of coffee. Period.
I never fell into the $5/cup fetish that many of my law school friends have for 'coffee drinks.' Yes, I enjoy a mocha frappacino or caramel macchiato or even a cinnamon latte as much as the next person, but what I need is plain, black coffee at least once per day or disaster looms.
I have had to break my daily habit of purchasing a cup of coffee and make coffee at home. It's never as good. Although I love to drink coffee, I have not found the right combination of coffee, water and heat to make the perfect cup of coffee at home. I make tolerable coffee (for me) which tastes pretty good to everyone else.
On the weekend, however, I hold out hope that because the paycheck has been deposited and we have given in to the children's requests for doughnuts of the Dunkin variety that there will be a huge, styrofoam cup of steamy goodness in my near future.
This morning, I realized that there is a conspiracy afoot. Karma, the gods, or just plain demonic forces have teamed up with my feckless husband to undermine my mental stability and peace of mind by denying me my drug of choice. That's right, my friends. My husband claimed to have 'made coffee' himself this morning and refused to acknowledge my hints and outright request for coffee from Dunkin' when he went to retrieve doughnuts.
Before I go further, you must know--my husband has NO appreciation for a fine cup of coffee. He has no palate for it. Sure, we could blame the Army for this unfortunate state of being, but I also blame his absolute stubborness to acknowledge that he cannot make good coffee...at all. The worse his coffee tastes, the more angry and disappointed he acts about my refusal to drink it or call it good. I usually just call it good so he doesn't whine and then sneak out to get real coffee later in the day.
Earlier this week, however, he made a pot of coffee for me and he was very excited about it. 3 scoops of coffee and setting it on the 'strong' brew cycle. It tasted okay and with three spoonfuls of sugar and a 1/4 cup of milk, I was able to drink it. I consider adding anything to coffee a crime against nature as God intended, mind you, but this was about survival, avoiding an argument and delivering some much needed caffeine to my system.
Today, he tells me he made this pot "exactly the same" as he did the pot described earlier. I decided to try it black even though I remembered how I had to doctor it. I took a drink and while not bad, the aftertaste made me gag...what WAS that?! I took two more sips and then dumped it down the drain and asked, "Did you use water from the machine or tap water to make that coffee?" "Tap water," he said.
TAP WATER?! Are you kidding me?! Our tap water is a disgusting blend of chlorine and liquid. I'm surprised it doesn't turn our hair green when we take showers. I have had a bottled water machine in this house for the entire time I have lived here and I use that water for cooking and drinking AND making coffee...obviously!
So, not only was this coffee not exactly like the pot made earlier in the week, it is unlike any other pot of coffee made in this house because tap water is the DEVIL.
I had to clean my machine because it now stinks to high heaven of chlorine and despair. I have brewed a fresh pot of my mediocre coffee. The headache of waiting too long for coffee has already set in plus I'm more than a little angry at how cavalierly he treats my addiction and need for coffee. He has his quirks and preferences too--more than a person should have and I bow to every single one.
Nothing but cheese on your deluxe cheeseburger? Yes, my lord.
No broccoli in your broccoli cheese soup? Yes, my lord.
No cold meat on your cold meat sandwich? You prefer it hot? Yes, my lord.
No condiments touching any of your food at any time? Yes, my lord.
But, it's too much to ask to have ONE freaking cup of deliciously perfect coffee on a Sunday morning?!
I warn you now that the next time the beer drawer needs refilled, Sam Adams Winter Ale is NOWHERE on my list. Oh, no. Milwaukee's Best will be the order of the day, my friends.
Embrace the skunk, my love. Embrace the skunk.