I am a serious coffee drinker. On most mornings, I will drink four cups of coffee; it’s not unknown for me to pour as many as six. The routine (and let’s face it, the caffeine) are a jump start to my days. I take my coffee seriously.
Each evening, I set out my coffee cup and the creamer of choice, ready soldiers for my day. Then I grind my coffee beans and set the timer on my coffee pot so that there will be fresh-brewed coffee when I slink downstairs in the early morning.
A few months ago, my coffee bean grinder seemed about to give up the ghost. T offered to buy me a new one but I demurred and (miraculously), the grinder recovered. On Wednesday evening, the grinder didn’t work. I checked the blade, re-seated it in the bin and it worked again. I made a mental note that a replacement grinder is in order and then I went to bed. Thursday morning, there was coffee for me to enjoy and I promptly forgot my grinder-troubles.
In hindsight, that was an error. Thursday evening, I poured coffee beans into the grinder cup, set the lid on, pushed the button and heard a less than robust motor sound. I removed the lid and had a look. Uh-oh.
I tried to work the same magic that had paid off on Wednesday night. The grinder motor ran, but the blade wasn’t turning. I took out the beans, removed the cup and had a look. The bolt that runs the grinder blade was stripped.
I attempted to use my immersion blender to grind the beans. This was not a success.
T, informed of my plight, offered up the suggestion that when I hit the store for a new grinder, I secure two. Her justification? The old military and disaster-preparedness motto: Two is one and one is none. Last night, that seemed like a bit of overkill.