Yesterday morning as Dennis and I groggily trudged downstairs, we realized right away that something wasn’t right. The house was eerily quiet, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee was surprisingly absent. Within seconds of entering the kitchen we discovered that our coffee maker was in the process of dying a slow and confusing death. Panicked, we rushed to its side. I threw open the cover and saw fresh, untouched coffee grinds still sitting in the filter. I desperately grabbed hold of the sides of the machine and frantically tried to bang some life back into it, a low moan escaping my lips. Water sloshed messily out of the top of the reservoir, like tears from a heartfelt ugly cry. I poked and podded my coffee maker’s buttons, but they did little more than flicker wearily at me. Then I heard a soft click, and silence. It was gone.
I ran my fingers lightly along my coffee maker’s power cord, then gently pulled the plug. Memories of delicately exquisite caffeine filled mornings washed over me, weighing me down with longing and desperation. Thoughts of a coffee-less day were almost too much to bear. Caffeine withdrawal and partial brain paralysis were beginning to set in, so I did what any true Canadian would do. I made a slow and sorrowful trip to Tim Horton’s to bring home some warm cups of love in order to ease the pain in our hearts, and to stop the shaking in our hands.