OINKtales

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.