BitterSweetLife

I had just turned on my espresso machine when I heard a sound in the living room that sounded like someone was running back and forth very, very quickly through a hanging bead curtain. No such luck.

I entered the living room to see Aidan holding my bag of Broadway Cafe espresso beans upside down, carefully shaking the last few beans onto the carpet with a kind of quizzical expression on his face. As if, THIS is what happens when you upend a bag of the venerated coffee beans? What, no explosion? No flashing lights or wailing sirens?

As each coffee bean was picked up one at a time and dusted off tenderly, I knew exactly what it must feel like to be a South American coffee farmer--except they don't have to deal with cracker crumbs and carpet lint. Also, they don't brew everything they harvest.

When the last bean was dropped in the bag, I realized that I should have taken a picture of the scene--unfortunately, I was too distraught at the time. Besides, the sight of me cracking that whip over Aidan's head might have been disturbing to some people who weren't fully cognizant of the circumstances.