I blogged a few months ago about my new fantastic coffeemaker. I’d like to now report that said coffeemaker has developed a lovely, aged film around the inside of the reservoir that flavors the coffee with a deep, rich aftertaste, especially in a dark roast. I am content. I have become One with the Machine, able to now empty out yesterday’s grounds, dump the drizzle left from yesterday’s pot(s), rinse the basket, reassemble the basket with fresh coffee, and fill the water tank, all in a semi-conscious state. Life is good.

Except when it’s not. Yesterday, my semiconsciousness proved to outsmart me (or maybe it was just the universe laughing at me). I filled the basket with two scoops of hi-test and ran back upstairs to comfort the baby who’d woken up with her brother’s heel up her nose.

After rearranging sleeping limbs of toddler and preschooler and prompting Other Half into the shower, I came back downstairs to my stainless-steel Giver of Lifeblood to continue the process of pouring in sweet, clear water and beginning its transformation into the black gold of coffee.

At first sip of the fresh brew, I assumed I’d just lost my depth perception for the few moments it took for me to pour half and half into my bottomless mug. But sip after sip, my discontent grew, as did the monkey on my back clamoring for the caffeine and taste it has come to expect, nay demand, of me. I opened the basket, wondering what had gone wrong…why my dark-roast love had betrayed me so badly. I mean, I couldn’t be pregnant again, and I wasn’t feeling sick. Had the kids finally succeeded in driving their mother completely over the edge?

I cursed. I cursed out loud. In a very quiet voice, I turned the air in my immediate vicinity a lovely shade of turquoise. If I had somehow managed to break my Deliverer of Joy and Caffeine, discovered it wasn’t the caliber of machine tough enough to take on my Joe Habit–

I calmed myself a little and peeked under the hood to peer into the basket, and it came to me in a blinding flash of clarity stunning in its presence in spite of the lack of caffeine to fuel it. I’d put the two scoops of hi-test in the basket, but never put in the other two scoops!

Le Tragedie!

Le Horror!

Le Drama!

So I went weak-kneed with relief, embraced my Cuisinart, and we both promised to Never Fight Again. But I was a wreck the whole damn day.

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