I write this entry from a motel in Branson, Missouri. I'm being as quiet as possible, trying not to awaken my sleeping husband and two granddaughters. I'd like to awaken them, because we're going home once everybody's up. And if going home twere done, then twere well twere done quickly (my apologies to Shakespeare and Lady McBeth). However, as a lifetime member of the early risers' club, I've learned that some sleeping dogs are better left laying. (Geesh, what's wrong with me this morning?)
Breakfast at this motel starts at 7 A.M. on the dot. I've been needing coffee since 5:30, but I held off. Finally the time came, and I got myself a cup and came back to the motel room, only to realize this motel coffee tastes like recycled stump water.
I tried to force myself to drink it, but finally I broke. Remembering a McDonalds around the bend and across the road, I grabbed my billfold and silently crept out into the early-morning Branson traffic; I needed my daily walk, anyhow.
But I was hardly out of the parking lot when I spotted a Krisby Kreme shop next door. They'd have coffee, right?
I hate to tell this story on myself: I walked in, saw "coffee: $7.99" and thought that meant per cup. After making a hasty exit, I realized the sign also said "fresh-ground or whole-bean", and it hit me that price was a per-pound, roast coffee price. Please remember, I hadn't had a shot of caffeine yet, so my mind was very cloudy.
The lines at McDonalds, both at the drive-through and inside, were unbelievably long; but having ventured this far, I was determined to have myself a real cup of coffee, so I waited for the one employee up front who was trying to meet the needs of many hungry folks.
Now I sit here sipping on my large McDonalds coffee with three creams and realize it doesn't touch the goodness of my Starbucks fresh-ground coffee at home. It is, however, greatly superior to what the motel offers.
I can't wait to get home to my prized little hand coffee mill (that cost something like $75) and my flavorful coffee beans ($17 for less than three pounds at Sam's Club), which I never grind until just before I brew my coffee.
I wasn't always a coffee snob. Oh no, not until I stumbled upon the blog of a man named Ariel who mostly posts about basketball (in which I have no interest at all) but also writes about Church-planting (an endeavor I admire, but probably will never have a part in) and, once in a blue moon, he blogs about coffee. That's the part that's done me in.
The funny thing is this: When I first began grinding my coffee, Cliff didn't see the big deal: "Doesn't taste any different to me," he snorted.
I normally wake up at least two hours ahead of him (he works evenings); so I'd make my freshly-ground coffee, drink it all, and, when he was up, I'd make his Folgers... the only coffee we'd ever used in our entire married life.
One morning he woke up in time to have one cup of my special coffee before I made his Folgers. That's when he noticed the incredible difference, and now he's a convert too.
A.J., you ought to be ashamed, corrupting two old fogies like us.