"I have a confession to make."
My husband had just woke up and I was lying in bed with him. My stomach tightened. In my experience, no good can come from a conversation that starts out with, "I have a confession to make."
"I bought something yesterday."
I relaxed a bit. It wasn't one of "those" confessions. But then my mind whirled. He'd been checking out vintage Les Paul guitars on ebay. Had he bought one? We were trying to save up enough money for a trip to Hawaii. Had he blown the trip?
"What's that?" Cautious now.
"I bought an eighth."
I am a child of the eighties. An eighth means only one thing in my book, an indulgence we gave up years ago when we decided to stop partying and raise children. I sat up in bed.
"You what?" Imagine my voice raising five octives on that last word.
"An eighth of coffee."
I lay back down. An eighth of coffee?
"You know my friend Andy? He went and bought a half a pound of coffee and I bought an eighth of it. Amazing coffee. The best coffee in the world. Like incredibly expensive coffee. I felt like I was doing a drug deal."
My brow furrowed. "Just how expensive was it?"
"You don't want to know."
"Yes, I do. Just how expensive can it be?"
"Almost 200 a pound."
"What?" (the octive thing again) "That means you spent like 25 dollars or something on an eighth of coffee!"
"It better be damn good coffee."
It was. Drop dead and die good coffee. Now, I love me some coffee. I drink it black except for my Starbucks, but other than that I am a purist. And this coffee was to die for. Rich, nutty, dark on the tongue, it left an amazing aftertaste that's hard to describe.
But in order for coffee to be worth that much it would have to hop out of my refrigerater, grind itself and leap into my cup fully made.
But that doesn't keep me from enjoying it!