Sunday, November 20, 2011
There are some places I refuse to buy coffee because I can't fix it exactly like I want it. Drive-thru coffee is far too hot. I don't want to buy coffee that I can't drink for thirty minutes until it cools down enough so I don't burn my mouth.
Flavors? Meh. Those are dessert coffees for the evening. For breakfast, give me plain, unadorned coffee. That first shot of caffeine for the day doesn't need to be gussied up.
Whipped? Cold? Blech. I'm sure my age is showing, but for me, coffee will always be a beverage meant to consumed hot. That heat rushing down the throat to warm the chest. That's part of the experience of drinking coffee. Cold coffee just doesn't convey the same sensation.
I'm a terrible coffee maker. Yes, yes, I know. Measure it in the pot and turn it on. How difficult can it be? Well. When I was a young woman, the hunk and I were friends with another couple, Dorian and Orlando. Orlando was born in Columbia (yes, South America) and he declared my coffee couldn't possibly be that bad.
The next time they came over for the evening, I made coffee...while he watched and coached me. I did everything exactly how he told me. We stood at the kitchen counter while the coffeemaker did its thing.
Finally, it was done. He poured a cup. And took a hearty gulp.
And began to cough and wheeze. "It's like rocket fuel," he gasped.
And that was the last time I was asked to make the coffee.