This morning the student I have bribed to make my pot of coffee ("hot pot of coffee!!") every morning reported that there was barely enough ground to make two cups. I broke out an emergency vacuum-sealed pack of Jack Daniels-flavored coffee that wound its sinister way via one re-gifted basket o'crap or another into my hands. It lingered around more for novelty's sake than any real intention of ever being brewed, but I was having a particularly rough time of it this morning and relented. Brew the Jack, I said. Just... just brew it. It'll be fine.
I already don't like flavored coffee. I already would rather nothing other than water and ground up coffee beans (and, if given the choice, originating from New Guinea) be involved in my cup of coffee. Black and hot and black and hot. I want the smell and steam to be expelled through my nose. Cream makes me curl one side of my lip in disgust; fucking flavors elicit the full-on sneer. What's more is that, after a recent tour of the Java City brewing facility in Sacramento, I saw, through oily paned glass, two people in full-body haz-mat suits, looking like the monkey-chasers in Outbreak dousing a massive vat of roasted arabica with a chemical that spewed forth from metal spigots attached to shiny, cylindrical backpacks. The chemical was hazelnut flavoring.
I'm guessing all the other fun flavors, including my Tennessee Jack Jizz, issued forth in a similarly alarming state of biohazardous lockdown.
Once, when I was a kid, in the process of making my mom's post-dinner pot of coffee, I stuck a cinnamon stick in the filter basket. Thought it'd be fun, maybe even tasty. That was the one and only time I'd ever heard my mother use the f-word. Don't fuck with my coffee, she said. And she meant it.
I'm going to drink a lot this weekend. A lot of beer, probably some wine, and a whole hell of a lot of coffee. I'm looking forward to a late-night espresso in North Beach, a Saturday cup with breakfast at Java Beach, and the paper and two cups (one to go) from Royal Ground on Sunday.
Stop by. First cup's on me.
And I promise not to fuck with your coffee.
I already don't like flavored coffee. I already would rather nothing other than water and ground up coffee beans (and, if given the choice, originating from New Guinea) be involved in my cup of coffee. Black and hot and black and hot. I want the smell and steam to be expelled through my nose. Cream makes me curl one side of my lip in disgust; fucking flavors elicit the full-on sneer. What's more is that, after a recent tour of the Java City brewing facility in Sacramento, I saw, through oily paned glass, two people in full-body haz-mat suits, looking like the monkey-chasers in Outbreak dousing a massive vat of roasted arabica with a chemical that spewed forth from metal spigots attached to shiny, cylindrical backpacks. The chemical was hazelnut flavoring.
I'm guessing all the other fun flavors, including my Tennessee Jack Jizz, issued forth in a similarly alarming state of biohazardous lockdown.
Once, when I was a kid, in the process of making my mom's post-dinner pot of coffee, I stuck a cinnamon stick in the filter basket. Thought it'd be fun, maybe even tasty. That was the one and only time I'd ever heard my mother use the f-word. Don't fuck with my coffee, she said. And she meant it.
I'm going to drink a lot this weekend. A lot of beer, probably some wine, and a whole hell of a lot of coffee. I'm looking forward to a late-night espresso in North Beach, a Saturday cup with breakfast at Java Beach, and the paper and two cups (one to go) from Royal Ground on Sunday.
Stop by. First cup's on me.
And I promise not to fuck with your coffee.
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Can you confirm?