As you may know, I love cooking and baking (unless I'm ravenous, in which case I just pour chopped lettuce into a bowl, add ranch, and pop an ounce each of cheese and pepperoni into my mouth). I even won a chicken soup contest back in 2004. Trust me when I say I'm awesome at everything I do in the kitchen (barring hardware issues--I swear my mom's oven runs unpredictably hot).
Okay, there is one exception: I always find a way to screw up coffee. You would not believe how horrible I am at making a cup of the stuff. In fact, just this morning I made coffee-flavored hot water. I'm never quite sure of the necessary grounds-to-water ratio. Is it one measuring tablespoon of grounds per cup of water, or one dinner spoon? Level or rounded? A six-ounce cup or an eight-ounce cup? Sometimes I inadvertently do away with the grounds altogether. Most often though, I fill the carafe with water and forget to pour it into the machine.
For years, no one knew about this embarassing deficiency of mine. No one had to know; I only made coffee for myself. The secret came rushing out one evening a few months ago. I've almost recovered, emotionally.
Evangeline and I were at my dad's house, probably preparing to watch a movie. I asked E what she wanted to drink. Because my dad is a single man living on his own (I primarily live with my mom), all he had was water, rotten milk, tea, and coffee. [Warning: Tense change!] Tea, she says. Okay, tea it is. I go to the cupboard and all we have is loose tea. I don't mess with that shit, so I ask her if she wants coffee instead. Sure, she says.
Every few seconds, I go back to the living room to ask her a different question. How much coffee? A measuring spoon? A small cup? Alright, cool. Coffee time!
Using a table tablespoon, I pour some coffee grounds into a paper filter, put it in it's little swing-open bucket, and push it closed. I partially fill the coffee pot with water, put it under the drip, and flip the switch. I wait until it heats up, just to be sure. The carafe gets steamy. Oops! I remove it, pour the water into the machine, and then put it back. Finally satisfied that I haven't caused any coffee chaos, I go to the living room and chitchat with E. (It's chitchatting when you cross your leg at the knee, and fold your hands over it. It's talking when you sit back and relax.)
Several minutes later, when I can smell the coffee (ahhhh), I go to retrieve it. I walk in to the kitchen and HOLY SHIT! Wet globs of coffee grounds are everywhere--all over the counter, running down the side of the coffee pot... Liquid coffee is spilling out of the filter bucket in waves. It's cascading over the edge of the counter, and down the front of the cabinets onto the floor. I quickly reach in and unplug it because at this point, I'm afraid the coffee machine is going to blow the roof off the house.
"Daddy! Daddy!" I shriek. As he's running into the kitchen asking what's wrong, I scream, "The coffee machine exploded!!!"
He sees the mess in progress. "Oh shit!" He grabs the kitchen towel and reams of paper towel to soak up the filth pouring forth. I run to get a bath towel. I sop up the coffee on the floor. He takes care of the counter. The coffee machine soon stops vomiting. We wipe everything clean. As we're throwing away the last of the dirty paper towels, my dad looks at me, smirking and shaking his head. I giggle, sheepishly.
With one finger, he deliberately closes the swing-out coffee filter bucket, which I neglected to do when attempting to brew the coffee.
With that open, the hole dripping into the carafe was blocked. Having nowhere to escape to, the coffee built up and finally spilled over, grounds and all. Oops. My fault. The coffee machine didn't explode. Regardless, I'm through with that machine. I want nothing to do with it. I'll make espresso, I think to myself. I run the idea past Evangeline, and she approves.
