I’m not allowed to make the coffee at home, anymore. There’s a growing list of things I’m not allowed to do.
It’s OK. I don’t drink coffee, so making coffee doesn’t benefit me. Apparently, my making the coffee doesn’t benefit anyone.
We have one of those second-generation coffee machines. That is to say, someone else owned it before we did so it’s on its second generation. It actually was my daughter’s coffee machine; I guess that makes it a hand-me-up. She got one of those fancy-schmancy machines a few years back, so we saved this one from the dumpster.
It’s seen better days. The top of it is cracked, and by cracked, I mean half of it is missing. It’s a spring-loaded lid, but instead of springing when you open it, it just hangs over the side like a dog’s tongue on a hot summer day.
I woke up one morning last week before Jennie did, which almost never happens. So, I thought I’d be nice and asked her if she wanted me to start her coffee for her.
She said, “Shhhh.” That’s what she always says before she’s had her coffee.
I wanted to make the coffee, though. You know, do something nice for somebody. We had just watched The Bucket List the night before, so I guess I was feeling wishful. Making coffee isn’t really a bucket list kind of wish, but it’s the thought, you know.
Jennie mumbled as she rolled over: “It’s all ready to go. Just pour the water in, plug it in and hit the two buttons.”
This seemed simple enough. I lifted the lid and saw the coffee already in place. I poured the water over it, plugged in the machine and then contemplated which two of the four buttons on the front I was supposed to press. I pressed them all.
Water was pouring out of the top of the machine onto the counter and what little was dripping into the pot looked more like something you’d flush.
Houston, we have a problem.
Jennie rushed down the hall not looking nearly as appreciative as I had first hoped. Turns out, there’s a spot in the back of the machine where the water goes, not directly on the coffee. Seems like the instructions were a bit vague on that.
We had to throw out that batch and start over. I still wanted to make the coffee. Jennie cleaned up the mess and rinsed out the machine and reluctantly agreed to let me try again.
“Where are the filters?” I asked as I twirled open the lazy Susan and wondered who Susan was and why was she so lazy.
“It doesn’t use paper filters,” Jennie replied.
So, I scooped the coffee into the top where it had been before and poured the water into the correct spot and even pressed the two right buttons, which is to say the two on the left. Pretty soon, the pot was hissing and chirping along.
But still no coffee.
There was something coffee-esque in the pot. Covfefe, perhaps. Whatever it was, it did not look drinkable.
“Oh, you didn’t put the filter in,” Jennie exclaimed.
“You said it didn’t use filters.”
“I said it doesn’t use paper filters.” There was a reusable plastic and mesh cone resting in the dish drainer.
I think there could have been a little better communication on that. But in Jennie’s defense, she had not yet had her coffee.
So, back to the drawing board, and by drawing board, I mean the lazy Susan where the coffee is stored. Except — [dramatic pause] — now there was no coffee left in the can.
And that, your honor, is the last thing I remember.
© Copyright 2017 by David Porter who can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. I’m not sure Jennie even really likes coffee; she drinks it more for the benefit of others.