My Darling B drank off the last of the pot o’ java I brewed this morning and went to make more at about nine-thirty. That’s what we do on mornings we have off from work: Drink too much coffee and lay around in our pajamas until ten or eleven o’clock.
So when B put the kettle on, then flipped open the latch-top mason jar to scoop some beans into the grinder and found there were no beans at all in there, the shout went out: “There’s no coffee!”
I’m pretty sure we could have gone without it, but I put on my trousers anyway and hauled ass down to Fraboni’s, an Italian grocery store just two blocks from our house. I have never been able to figure out why Fraboni’s is there. Monona is a bedroom community more than a neighborhood, by which I mean it’s all houses and apartment buildings; the few stores we have are chains like Walgreen’s and Copp’s. I wouldn’t think there are enough people here who consider themselves Italian to support a specialty store like Fraboni’s, but it’s been there for years, and it’s right behind an Italian restaurant, so what do I know?
And I guess Italians drink a lot of espresso, but they don’t seem to be especially into coffee, or at least not enough to look for beans at Fraboni’s, so I was out of luck there. Fortunately there’s Ken’s Deli right across the street, where I could get a half-pound of chain store coffee. B breathed an audible sigh of relief when I walked in the door with it, then hovered by the kitchen counter as the cone filter dripped its last. Coffee panic over.