Coffee catastrophe

Little known fact about me:

I enjoy cooking.

Ok, that's not really "little known" ...

BUT (here's the lesser-known bit)

I get really nervous when I am cooking for others.

I don't know what it is. But it makes me all panicky and hyper-aware of every little comment people make when consuming what I've made.

The dumb thing is, it's not like I'm completely inept in the kitchen. Last night, for example... I made a pretty awesome alfredo sauce. I cook a mean chicken Florentine, my scallop potatoes are divine, and the recipes I swipe from my dad (penne, mac 'n' cheese, red rice, stuffed pork .... the list goes on) are always a success.

I don't think I've ever really made something I didn't like... something that was absolutely inedible. Sometimes I get in the mood to make bread or some random baked good... and I get tired of it really fast, or forget to cover it so it goes stale....

But all in all... I have a pretty good record*

Except I think I effed up the coffee this morning.

I should note that once upon a time, I had a rule, a mantra almost. That I refused to learn how to do two things in life, because there would always be someone around who would know how to do it. Point Finale.

Those two things were:

• how to BBQ
• how to make coffee

It got to the point where I started to say my life would probably come to an untimely end because some day I was going to get kidnapped... and the kidnappers would provide me with an ultimatum: make us coffee or die, and I would die, because I just wouldn't know how to do it.**

And I was fine with that.

Until I moved to Quebec. By myself. No roomies to make me coffee, no mother to start the pot in the morning. I was all alone.

So I surrendered to fate. I had to learn how to make coffee.

So I asked my mom. And I wrote down the formula: one scoopie per 2 cups of coffee... but make sure you buy the right kind of scoopie or more math will be required bla bla bla... I wrote it all down on a post-it note, and taped it into the coffee maker itself. When I unpacked all my belongings in Quebec, the post-it was promptly stuck to the fridge, where it stayed until I moved out.

So for a good five months there, I was making my own coffee. I was such a grownup. It was impressive.

Then I moved north... and shortly thereafter bought an espresso maker. And never looked back. Lattes became a way of life for this girl. It was glorious.

Until today.

When I looked at the coffeepot in the breakroom here at CBC and decided I needed a caffeine jolt. I followed the directions on the Maxwell House tin. And drooled as the dark liquid trickled into the pot. The aroma wafted through the office, it was heaven.

I poured myself a cup, and it tasted like ass. It was strong, but not even good strong. Somehow this freak creation of mine managed to be both strong AND watery at the same time. Creepy.

I have no idea what went wrong. I did what I was supposed to. Did Maxwell House lie to me? Was the scoopie the wrong size? Forget it. I'm retiring from coffee-making.

I'm back on the latte.

Now, I just have to go try and dispose of the evidence before the coworkers try it and discover my hideous coffee-making skills.



*recent basil fiasco excepted... and for those involved... for the record, I ate some of that leftover "basil bread" for breakfast this morning, so there :P

**this story was also used to "defend" my spelling skills ... or lack thereof.