Tuesday, January 30, 2007
as adept as I am in most areas, not so in the art of making coffee--
Quote: a prominent co-worker, the pot I made yesterday afternoon tasted like, "(clicks tongue) A Brick."
Another said, quote, "Really Bad."
Not to have been out done by myself before, and since more coffee grounds = gooder coffee, I filled the maker to the brim like so many brimming fishes.
The end result being what I might call something in the way of vaudeville and slightly brick-y.
"I will make that good pot," said I.
So, being that the night before, while a drink of water I got at 3:03 AM being awoke by the cat, I met the frame of the doorway with my forehead in the darkness and thereby caused a small welt to form where once before there was only eyebrow.
Again, so as not to be out done by myself, I went onto (after my water and dazed collision with the frame) to not-sleep and lay awake for many days. Or hours. Maybe only two. But they felt long.
Purposing in my heart to not suffer defeat at the hands of this task-master so wicked and bad, I resolved to forge the pot again:
And so. In this glad morning, I made that pot-- cast off the old grounds of the yesteryear afternoon, rough hewn afresh were the new grounds, and I burned them with many hot waters.
And there, at my desk, I drank that coffee, enjoying it as much as people really do enjoy coffee (-_-) for it is close to a joke, but enjoy it really-- for that doctored kind is not good. Resound, that tan coffee to be abolished and be drunk no more. Many hot waters burned that coffee, and it was good.
And I made one cup. One cup in that 12 cup pot. One cup for me and no other, thereby ensuring the sound affirmation of my abilities,
so I would be the only one who knew that I was, still, as always, bad at making coffee.