The Great Coffee Caper
We all know about my addiction to coffee.
Specifically, those of you who have ever spent the night at my house, or whose houses I have ever spent the night at, know about my coffee addiction. Even then I make vague attempts at politeness; I say "good morning" and "did you sleep well?" and such. I don't hog the bathroom. I strip the bed and fold the sheets, even though I know you're just going to throw them in the laundry anyway. But this is all because I know there is coffee in the house, and it is coming. It's psychological; the coffee doesn't have to actually be in my system, it just has to have the potential of being in my system five minutes after I demand it.
The last few mornings have been awful. There was no coffee in the house. We went out to the local joint and bought some, but it's undrinkable. It's truly terrible. I have been looking all week for a particular shop in the village; I thought it was on Bleeker but it turns out it's on Christopher. We bought some yesterday, finally, and this morning I woke up cheerful. The certainty of coffee allowed me to do a bit of work, glare at an unfortunate email, and comment favourably on the weather before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
But the stove wouldn't light.
I tried again. Then I tried the top right-hand element. Then the bottom left-hand element. By this point the kitchen rather reeked of gas, and, although desperate, I went back to my bedroom.
Suddenly the sun seemed to mock me; wake up, it had chirped, a mere twenty minutes earlier; wake up and greet your coffee! I mean your day! The emails pouring into my inbox kept getting worse. The work was floundering. And the coffee... the coffee smelt so good...
I actually considered just using hot water from the tap.
Having been talked down from my post next to the kitchen faucet, inhaling gas as I waited for the water gushing from the tap to heat sufficiently, I choked back some local diner coffee out of sheer necessity and, blissfully, headed straight downtown to where the good coffee is.
Hours later, having been thoroughly creeped out by Burtynsky's latest series, and having put in not nearly enough work into my latest revision, we discovered that the stove was working. So we made coffee. At 9 pm.
It is now 145 am. And I am nowhere near sleep.
Specifically, those of you who have ever spent the night at my house, or whose houses I have ever spent the night at, know about my coffee addiction. Even then I make vague attempts at politeness; I say "good morning" and "did you sleep well?" and such. I don't hog the bathroom. I strip the bed and fold the sheets, even though I know you're just going to throw them in the laundry anyway. But this is all because I know there is coffee in the house, and it is coming. It's psychological; the coffee doesn't have to actually be in my system, it just has to have the potential of being in my system five minutes after I demand it.
The last few mornings have been awful. There was no coffee in the house. We went out to the local joint and bought some, but it's undrinkable. It's truly terrible. I have been looking all week for a particular shop in the village; I thought it was on Bleeker but it turns out it's on Christopher. We bought some yesterday, finally, and this morning I woke up cheerful. The certainty of coffee allowed me to do a bit of work, glare at an unfortunate email, and comment favourably on the weather before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
But the stove wouldn't light.
I tried again. Then I tried the top right-hand element. Then the bottom left-hand element. By this point the kitchen rather reeked of gas, and, although desperate, I went back to my bedroom.
Suddenly the sun seemed to mock me; wake up, it had chirped, a mere twenty minutes earlier; wake up and greet your coffee! I mean your day! The emails pouring into my inbox kept getting worse. The work was floundering. And the coffee... the coffee smelt so good...
I actually considered just using hot water from the tap.
Having been talked down from my post next to the kitchen faucet, inhaling gas as I waited for the water gushing from the tap to heat sufficiently, I choked back some local diner coffee out of sheer necessity and, blissfully, headed straight downtown to where the good coffee is.
Hours later, having been thoroughly creeped out by Burtynsky's latest series, and having put in not nearly enough work into my latest revision, we discovered that the stove was working. So we made coffee. At 9 pm.
It is now 145 am. And I am nowhere near sleep.
posted by j | 6:21 PM
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