Camp Coffee Revisited

Being a Coffee Ninny, it’s not too hard to get on my wrong side when you are a cup of Joe. Too much creamer, not enough sugar, bitter, weak, or one of the worst, crunchy.

I have made Camp Coffee before; one of those desperate afternoons when sleep sneaks up the back of your neck, pushes your head forward and clamps down over your eyes. Happens about twice a week these days. That’s when I trudge to the office down the hall for a nudge of java.

On arrival, I found that Nicole was brewing up a pot or two for a meeting that was impending. She told me that one cup wouldn’t hurt, so go ahead. Such a nice girl.

I already had my sugar and creamer in there, so I poured the coffee into the waiting cup. Even before I stirred the medication, I saw black dots swirling and dancing in the tawny pool, giving evidence that the filter had fainted in the basket, as it had done to me.

I notified the hostess, to which she replied with a shocked look, then an exasperated sigh. That was the second time today and the third time in a week that it had happened to her. I suggested that she drop some eggshells in the pot to settle the wayward grounds, the same way Gabby Hayes would have.

She considered it for a second, I think. Perhaps it was just a ruse to placate me, a geezer, reluctant as I am to see anything wasted. Her pause was short-lived though, and she poured it down the sink and swished out the carafe.

Exiting the kitchenette, I stirred my cup and tried to remind myself that I’ll either need to strain it through my moustache, or just not slam it down my throat.

All it took was about 15 minutes and what did I do? Yep, I drank deeply from the cup of life, and ended up spitting coffee nubs out for the next few minutes.

Mental Note: Read mental note you make for yourself or it is a waste of time to make a mental note.