I love my coffee just as much as the next mom, but was recently seriously turned off with the household task of coffee brewing. It’s not because I’ve been bullied by my kids who inundate me with meaningless (to me) statistics about the evils of caffeine, telling me it’s one of the top three most highly addictive drugs in the world (as if my demitasse dealer and I didn’t already know that!).
It’s not because I am growing concerned with the perils of coffee that is not Free Trade and the impact of my addiction on the economies of more than a few small developing nations (I’m on a first name basis with the Costa Rican Minister of Export).
No. I’m considering giving up coffee because I recently de-scaled my coffee machine.
I found this coffee machine de-scaling product in my pantry while cleaning out the stale chips. And anyone who truly knows me knows that no potato chip has ever gone stale in my household. Never, ever. So it my afternoon project took all of 10 seconds and it was not long before I came across this mysterious package, and thought “What the heck? I didn’t know you had to clean out a coffee machine!”
So the adventurous one that I am, I followed the instructions as indicated.
As I poured out that first pot of my Great Canadian De-scaler Brew …
I just about tossed my tostidos in the sink! Holy putrid pot of puke!
From my beloved coffee pot which on any other day serves me my morning elixir of patience and perseverance, now spilled a light brown semi-solid, semi-liquid something interspersed with specks of old coffee grinds and a slimy film that made me think BP was done wreaking havoc on the Gulf of Mexico and now decided to flow unchecked into my white porcelain sink and down into my septic tank. I haven’t seen anything that disgusting since I ripped a Bioré deep cleansing pore strip off my nose! This brew was so repugnant I quickly looked around to make sure that Environment Canada (or the EPA) was not looking over my shoulder (and we know THAT was wishful thinking on my part too, for no one is looking over my should while I’m at the kitchen sink. Never, ever).
As I dabbed a cold compress gently to my forehead and cheeks, I focused on my breathing, and slowly I recovered.
“Are you okay?” my husband asked as he passed through the kitchen.
“Fine! Just fine!” I lied.
“Not fine,” I thought to myself, “I’m totally going to have nightmares over this …” and I consulted the bottle once again.
“Repeat if necessary”
As I carried the no longer functioning coffee maker to the end of the driveway in the latest chic HazMat wear, I asked cheerfully to my homebrews, “Anyone for Starbucks?”