It’s an amazing morning here, in my little town. The second one in a row. Autumn is literally swirling in the air—leaves are flying and I feel like I smell a pumpkin spice latte everywhere I turn. I’ve had the house to myself this weekend, and I have to say, I rather enjoy running a household. (But then again, I hardly think three cats make up what people call “a household.”)
I opened all the windows, pulled the shades up and bid the morning hello with a smile. I fed the kitties, switched on the coffee pot, and made a little morning fruit salad. Scrumptious.
As I settled in my favorite chair with this week’s current read (Start Something That Matters, by Blake Mycoskie) and a large mug of coffee, I felt one of those content, everything-is-so-right-in-the-world, moments, wash over me.
And then I took a sip of coffee.
Something had gone terribly awry in that coffee pot. Because this…this could not be considered coffee. After cringing for what felt like an hour, I looked in my mug—a normal seeming cup o’ joe. It even smelled java-like. But what a terrible tasting cup of coffee I had in my hands.
I will be the first to admit to not being a well-seasoned cook, pun intended. However, I’ve been upping my culinary game recently. I’ve dabbled in recipes, danced around the stove, so to speak. And you might be surprised to know that the things I’ve whipped up taste great—wonderful, in fact. As a recent college grad moving back home, I’ve gained major points with my parents because of my food.
But this coffee making thing…..I cannot get it right. Six cups of water, six, maybe seven, scoops of coffee. What’s wrong about that? Someone. Enlighten me.
And we wonder why most of my paycheck goes to Starbucks? Alas, wonder no more.
The coffee pot, or, most likely, all of them (they must have banded together in the department store and made an alliance against me, I knew it) has some sort of beef with me. It chuckles when I make attempts to brew something good.
Why, for the love of God, can’t I brew something good?