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I cannot relate to those people who spring out of bed, recharged and cheery after five winks. More often than not, mornings find me churlish and grumpy. I “normalize” only after imbibing a substantial amount of caffeine.
Sadly, our coffee maker is currently broken. And the fault is mine own.
There was one meager mugful left in the cold coffee pot. I mentally cursed my husband and his travel mug as the microwave hummed.
I had but one choice: brew another pot. For most people, making coffee is a simple task. For me, with our temperamental machine and my lack of skill, it isn’t. I make terrible coffee even when half the pot isn’t dripping off the counter. But an addict needs her fix.
I located the bag of whole beans, measured out 8 tablespoons, and dumped them into the grinding compartment. I filled up the small holding tank with what I estimated was the right amount of water, put the pot under the drip spout and pressed “On.” Nothing happened.
Then I remembered that the latch on the grinding compartment’s lid was broken. More than once, I had come downstairs and found heavy items balanced on top of the coffee maker.
I reached for the closest glass dish, smashed down the lid and pressed “On.” The familiar burr of beans being ground was loud and comforting. I relaxed and wandered away.
Shortly thereafter I heard popping noises that did not sound like the sputters at the end of the coffee cycle; those little pops that inform you that your delicious ambrosia of coffee, cream and lots of sugar is but moments away. No, these pops sounded more like kernels of corn exploding in the hot oil of the whirly-pop. Making this connection, I realized what I was hearing—it was the butter.
Yup, the glass dish I put on top of the coffee maker was the butter dish. In my morning stupor, I had stupidly overlooked the basic fact that BUTTER MELTS.
I raced into the kitchen to find liquified fat coating most surfaces in the room—the countertop, the floor, the backsplash, the cabinets. Further inspection revealed that melted butter also had streamed through the grounds and filtered through the machine into the pot. I was aghast.
Hot buttered coffee doesn’t taste too bad…as long as you pretend it’s hot buttered rum and down it in shots.
We peered through the wire at a fluffy white rabbit sleeping in straw.
“Aww,” Henry said, smiling up at me. “She’th a mommy bunny!”
“How do you know?”
He pointed at the “nest” she had made inside the hutch. “She’th thnugglin’ with her eggth!”
Err. No. That is, unless her name is Cadbury and her ova are chocolate.
Walking into a department store, I admonished the kids: “Now remember, we don’t need any more toys.”
“But what about Christmas?” Nora asked.
“Oh. Hmm. Well, I guess that’s different,” I responded. “Santa and the elves need their jobs.”
Dear Readers,
Although I am ultimately writing OINK Tales to preserve a record of life’s moments for my kids, I’ve been told that there is nothing more sad than an under-read blog. I am so grateful to those of you who have been oinking with me! I love to read your comments and really appreciate your words of encouragement. Being an instant gratification kind of girl, it’s been rewarding to me to know that you are listening. If any of my posts have made you chuckle, smile, or even briefly amused you, whether you are a semi-regular follower or a random reader, please: Push the Pig. It will feed my ego – I mean – warm my soul if you would send this link http://bit.ly/MalRl to your friends/family and invite them to check out OINK Tales.
Thanks and happy oinking!
Mary
As directed, I shake out the school’s neatly folded tablecloths and spread them over the formica tabletops. I place tea-cup sized ceramic plates in front of small wooden chairs. Alongside the plates, I arrange unmatched drinking glasses and cloth napkins made from scraps of floral fabric. I dot the tables with bowls of freshly sliced apples that Henry and I picked at a local orchard.
The tuneless notes of a cow bell starts the stampede. Sixteen children busily hang their coats, wash their hands and find their seats. I help distribute the individually portioned yogurt cups that I brought for group snack despite their bad-for-the-earth rap. (Call me lazy, but I didn’t want to wash sixteen more dishes. Besides, those containers are recyclable!)
The hard seat of the tiny wooden chair I am perched on is anesthetizing my rear-end. The room fills with a chorus of: “I don’t like this kind! I want what she’s having!” I swap yogurts between kids like a carney playing a cup game —Where’d the strawberry go? Is it this one? That one? Now you see it; now you don’t. Eventually, the kids settle down and start slurping.
A small voice announces: “These apples taste like poison.”
“Really?” I ask. “Have you been eating a lot of poison, lately?” Oops. I said that out-loud. I hurry to clarify, “Nobody should eat poison. Poison is very, very bad for you.”
The eight owners of the sixteen eyes at my table consider this statement. I raise my eyebrows and nod my head vigorously. “I promise you. I did not put any poison on these apples.”
Then, gathering my tattered rags around me, I cackle and put on my pointy hat.
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