The Perfect Cup of Coffee

So the Boyfriend, who is always up for one weird adventure or another, signed us up for a class in Lexington on “How To Make The Perfect Cup Of Coffee”.  A class given at a store that sells their own freshly roasted coffee beans for a premium price, not to mention various coffee-making accessories priced far above Williams-Sonoma, and he actually paid a fee for the privilege of our attending this class.  In exchange for our fee, we were promised we’d learn how to make the perfect cup of coffee, and would each receive a free 12 ounce bag of one of their house roasts. 

So this little white woman, apparently the owner of the store, was leading the class and the first thing she started really harping on with her shrill little voice was the importance of storing the beans in an air-tight container to keep the beans from oxidizing, and lo and behold, she had the perfect set of containers for sale right there in front of her. 

So I asked her, out of curiosity, “if oxygen causes damage to the beans, to the point they should be stored in a special container rather than just sealing up the bag, shouldn’t the container actually be vacuum-sealed, to keep out all the oxygen?”  And she agreed with me that this indeed would be magnificent and perfect. 

“Then why” asked I “do you store your very expensive freshly roasted beans in these large pickle-barrel looking bins with big scoops stuck in them, rather than keeping them vacuum-sealed for maximum freshness?”

THA-WACK!  She knocked me right upside the head with a two-pound bag of beans, a direct hit on the forehead which set my head spinning.  “HOW DARE YOU” she screeched, and the other participants of the class were glowering at me as if thoughts of becoming a mob and stoning me to death and grinding my remains in an overpriced burr coffee grinder might be an interesting idea.  So I figured it was time for me to leave.

And then the old goat threw a smaller bag at me as I walked across the parking lot, shouting “DON’T FORGET YOUR FREE BAG OF COFFEE, ASSHOLE!”  And I actually turned and picked it up, because, hey, my Boyfriend had paid for the damn thing.  And I shouted back “I REALLY WOULD PREFER A DARK ROAST” but she was gone by that time. 

 

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