The Mistress on My Counter

The “mistress” in my life.

We have a mistress in our house — a 20 pound coffee maker that is broad as my deck. She is shiny and beautiful.

My husband acquired her for his 15 year anniversary at work — a gift for his loyalty to the company.

She’s wrangled her way into my kitchen and planted herself on my counter, taking up a lot of space.  (Did I mention how big she is?)

No longer do I have to grind up my own coffee beans or measure my own water. She does it all. She can brew coffee for a small coffee cup up to a 12 cup decanter.

Actually, this is the second mistriss to take over. The first one stopped performing after three days. When my husband talked to the superb customer service team that manufactured the coffee machine, they said to send her back. Then she returned, like an STD.

Now my husband is buying decaf coffee to drink at night. *gasp*

She doesn’t like me.

She performs like a charm for my husband. Not so much for me. It took me three attempts to brew a cup of coffee today. Instead of brewing coffee right into my cup — she had the gift of spitting it out, all around my cup, and on to the counter.  She keeps complaining that I’m not empyting the filter, not filling her up with beans, not giving her enough water. Then she implied that she doesn’t perform for me because of user error.

Whatever.

I don’t need her anyway because I have my own gigolo that takes up as much counter space — my Vitamix.