humor · life

cup size matters

And not just in bras. All over the world people are busy filling out their Christmas lists. Many, many of those lists will feature a fancy new coffeemaker or espresso machine with bells and whistles galore — programmable, auto clean, drip stop, built-in grinder (burr and blade), automatic frother, barista included.

In the clamor for jazzy technology we tend to forget the basics, small details like the number of cups and their actual size. It’s best to be specific and eliminate the guesswork of harried shoppers whose only goal is to grab and run. They don’t care, but you will. Eventually. There’s a vast difference between a 4-cup machine and a 20-cup. I discovered that too late.

My little coffee maker died a few weeks ago and I went into a precipitous decline, physically and mentally. I, of course, assumed it was ebola or zika and began putting my affairs in order. Then I bought a giant coffee and, shazam, complete transformation. Imagine my relief when I realized it was only caffeine withdrawal causing the sluggishness, the aimlessness, fatigue, headaches, the full laundry list of ailments.

So I zipped off to replace my tiny 4-cup coffee maker post-haste. Cheap was my exclusive focus. So when I found a 12-cup Mr. Coffee for $15, jackpot!, I snatched that bad boy off the shelf, paid my money, and hurried home. To my great surprise, the thing is enormous. It takes up acres of counter space and I can’t even raise the reservoir lid — the cupboards are in the way. The carafe itself is the size of a koi pond.

I’m one person. I don’t need 12 cups of coffee in the morning, even though I’m suddenly equipped for it. Perhaps I should reconsider my options and open a coffee kiosk in the lobby. Or start a fitness program and swim in the stuff.

Cheers. Or glug.

copyright © 2016 the whirly girl


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