My wife usually makes the coffee, though she doesn’t drink it. Therefore, I don’t have much to do with the process unless the pot runs dry or batching for a few days.
Then she shouted from the kitchen yesterday morning.
“Honey, do you know where the coffee filters are?” she asks.
“No,” I answer.
“Are you sure,” she said. “You were the last to make coffee.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m wearing them like a ruffled collar that Sir Walter Raleigh might have worn in the Elizabethan Era,” I answered.
A long pause followed.
“Found them,” she returned, sounding a little ruffled.