Once, Klout said I was influential about coffee. My Facebook profile has more photos of coffee than it does my own children. I have a coffee mug large enough to swim in. The hint of espresso lacing an inch of milk froth on top of my cup is enough to make me faint.
The last package of dark espresso roast I bought lasted me the entire autumn. It used to last 10 days. I ran out last month, unless you count the can of Folgers that’s been sitting in the back of my refrigerator for a year. (I don’t.)
It’s true. I converted.
The whistle of a teakettle has replaced the roar of my espresso machine.
The good folks at Chateau Rouge Tea have the story of my “Come to Rooibos” moment.
Add this to the list of things science can’t explain, like the Taos hum or Naga fireballs.
I’m an insurance adjuster. We’re a jaded, thick-skinned lot, and no matter what names you call us or legal action you threaten, we get all our crying done the first month on the job. We chomp animal crackers while we crunch numbers, and hold Dum Dum suckers in our cheeks like Kojak, white stick hanging from lips all day long. Sometimes we make you listen to You Can’t Always Get What You Want on the Muzak while you wait on hold for us to decide your economic fate. We take our coffee thick and dark, the most hardcore among us chain smoking between cases of Diet Coke or bourbon at our desks.
Pay them a visit and read the rest of the story (and breathe in some pure Ceylon while you’re at it.)