The Case of the Coffee Curse

It started about two weeks ago. Every cup of coffee we made at home tasted like cigarette ashes mixed with solid waste. Not good for a couple of coffee lovers. We live in the suburbs of Seattle. Coffee shops are more common than gas stations. Starbucks has coffee shops inside many of our grocery stores. We even have cup holders built into on our shopping carts to hold our beloved caffeinated beverages while we get our groceries. Coffee is not just cultural. It's essential. It's a way of life. So you can imagine how our lives turned upside down when the coffee in our cups turned sour.

At first I thought it was the beans. I returned the one pound bag to Starbucks, asking for another. The barista suggested that I try having them ground in the store. Perhaps that would make the difference. I sailed home, sniffing my open bag of ground happiness. I could hardly wait to share the next cup of joe with my hubby later that night. Much to our dismay, the coffee was wretched.

It must be the machine! It is, after all, a couple years old and they don't make things like they used to. Perhaps our 12-cup, chrome and black, automatic Cuisinart had made its last great cup of wonder. I tried using my stove top machine, in hopes of a better brew. The loathsome, repulsive java was promptly poured down the drain. Happy with the old Cuisinart before the breakdown, I purchased an identical machine from Costco for $49.99 on Wednesday. The first pot we made that night was dreadful. We were forgiving, however, knowing that it was probably just flushing the dust particles out from the packaging. We were certain that the next morning would bring us a fresh, tasty, perky pot of coffee. Wrong!

Our water? Was it contaminated? Had someone cursed our coffee craving? Were we doomed to making a miserable brew forever? Why was it that every cup tasted worse than the last?

I suspected that the beans might still be to blame. On the way to our home school co-op on Thursday, I returned the half-used bag to good 'ol Starbucks one more time. They cheerfully exchanged it and suggested I try Cafe Verona for a less bitter experience.

As I lamented my coffee struggle with some of the moms at co-op, one brilliant mother, a genius in my opinion, made an astonishing suggestion, "Could it be the cream?" she asked?

The cream? The cream? That was the only variable of the coffee equation that remained the same. The carton was not due to expire until the middle of May. It had, however, sprung a leak right after I brought it home from the market. I had kept it in a dish in the refrigerator so that it would not leave a mess; changing it out as necessary.

As soon as I heard my husband's motorcycle pull up, I greeted him in the garage, "IT'S THE CREAM!," I joyfully announced.

He immediately knew what I was talking about. Why hadn't we thought of that? It was in plain sight the entire time; flowing into our cups, contaminating our coffee like blood into the water of the Egyptians' Nile.


Yesterday, I returned the new Cuisinart and got our money back. Ironically, I saw Genius Mom at Costco while I was in line. "It was the cream!" I shouted to her.


She gave me a genuine smile as she passed by. This humble super-sleuth may never know how grateful we are for her extraordinary intellectual and creative power in solving the Case of the Coffee Curse.