I make terrible, horrible, no good, very bad coffee. I mean, how hard is it to make coffee? Mine is terrible. TERRIBLE.
My husband says it’s my acidic soul that ruins the coffee. He claims that if coffee is made with love in your heart, it tastes delicious.
Roll. My. Eyes.
Since I make terrible coffee, my husband makes the coffee. He gets it ready each evening and sets the automatic timer to begin brewing the coffee at 5 AM.
It works out for me to be ‘terrible’ at this job. It means I don’t have to do that job. And the coffee is ready when I get out of bed each day.
Today I get up and do not smell any coffee. Hmmmm. I make my way to the kitchen and flip on the light. I do not have my glasses on so I must get close to the coffee pot in order to check it. Nothing. Nada.
I think he must have forgotten to turn it on. So I turn it on. I put away the dishes–and there’s still no coffee (we’ll talk about that burning smell situation later). Hmmmm.
Turns out he didn’t make any coffee on Sunday night. Weird. So I made the coffee. I knew he was on the treadmill and had another 20 minutes before he would finish. I knew that I might be dead by then. So I made the coffee. It’s not that hard.
And he drank it. He didn’t say a word about the taste.
Tonight I asked him if he had made the coffee for tomorrow. Yep. Completely puzzled by my question.
‘Well. You didn’t last night and I made it this morning. AND YOU AREN’T DEAD.’
‘Yet,’ he quips. ‘And forgetting once in 3,000 times isn’t too bad.’