I have a confession to make. It’s my dirty little secret, and I’m not proud of it, but it’s time it comes out. Here it goes. I can’t make coffee.
It doesn’t make sense. I consider myself a domestic person. I can bake. I’m a good cook. I don’t sew my own curtains like my sisters do, but I could in a pinch. I can’t keep a plant alive, so not so much for me and gardening, but I’m great with kids. And this one, basic domestic skill—brewing a drinkable pot of coffee—completely escapes me.
For a long time people made excuses for me—“If you had a better coffee pot, you’d be fine.” But when Jodie moved in, she came with one of those fancy, expensive coffee pots with a timer and everything. And my coffee still sucks. So badly that I’ve been banned from making it. Same coffee maker, same coffee, and yet somehow it tastes totally different when I make it. She was on a business trip this weekend, and I made a valiant effort to make some for myself. I didn’t have to throw it out, which for me is a slam dunk, so yay! But yes, I can’t make coffee. Go ahead and scoff. I deserve it.
Monday, November 20, 2006
A Confession
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1 comment:
Bookgirl. I can't either. And I'm a chef. Culinary school and all. No good coffe comes from these hands.
It's because I'm lazy, I think. I spent my earlier years not drinking coffee because I didn't like the taste. Then I spent the next few years working in the kitchen avoiding the coffee pot until the coffee was brewed. Then I spent the last few years as a corporate chef with an office and a test kitchen and all. Well, I surely wasn't making coffee then, the receptionist was.
But, now that I have left the culinary world to pursue my real passion, the one that I can't do at home on a Sunday afternoon if I feel like it, I am suddenly the lowly receptionist/ new girl in the office and everyone else is avoiding the coffee pot until I brew the coffee. I feel bad for them. But they can't see me smirking at them, my mouth is nicely hidden behind the rim of my Starbucks mug.
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