In the kitchen, the scent of coffee greets me. The water on the stove hasn’t started to boil yet. When—if—it does, I’m not certain it will help. The only reason I can smell the coffee is that I’ve brewed four pots at once.
I pour half and half into one of the adorable cow pitchers the pancake house uses and then set about giving each pot a taste test.
I immediately wish I hadn’t. I contemplate l*****g the sleeve of my T-shirt to remove the flavor from my tongue. I’d reach for an orange juice chaser, but I’ve already used supplies that aren’t mine. I’d hate to add to that.
Only the last pot, the one with the eggshells, holds any hope. This coffee is weak but lacks the aggressive bitterness of the others. I pour it into an insulated carafe and switch the others off—nothing good can come f
