Got up, made my coffee, went about my business, walked back into the kitchen and noticed there was a burning plastic smell in the room. I thought something had got stuck on the coffee pot burner as I opened the freezer to get ice for that first burning-hot cup (oh the irony), but nope. It was the wiring underneath the tank, which I discovered upon opening the lid, seeing the lovely flame and hearing the crackling spark of the destroyed wiring. I unplugged the machine, pulled out the baking soda (Thank God I bought some!) and doused the flame with little fanfare. I hadn't had any coffee yet, so I was more or less sleep-walking through the process.All things must come to pass, as my #coffee maker just gave me one last pot before catching fire. #RIP my friend.— Rob Murray (@lefthandrob) June 7, 2015
The now-defunct life-bringer sits on my back porch in case it decides to spontaneously re-combust, as I need to re-do the porch anyway. Funny thing is, I own 2 fire extinguishers, but I still reached for the baking soda because electrical fire.
There's a poem in this, I'm sure. An heroic epic about my triumph in the face of certain doom and the keening wail of my neurons as we are now left with but a dwindling pot of coffee and only a French Press left in the house to make do with until I purchase another coffee maker.
To everything there is a season, turn, turn, turn.
My Krups coffee maker (one side espresso, other side drip) was a gift in the Summer of 2007, and along the way I bought one of those grocery store copper discs to even out the heat from the burner and a replacement pressure-lid for the espresso tank. I cleaned it off and out periodically and used it in one of it's facets nearly every day for these past 8 years. It was my friend and constant trusted companion for all those days, even though I would often curse the carafe itself for its propensity to dribble or outright spill its contents all around if one did not hold it canted just so when pouring either cold water or steaming hot coffee. The fact that I could steam milk in my own home and make wonderful espresso drinks for my friends lodged it firmly in my heart even though the steam-nozzle was mounted just low enough to make fitting the milk to be steamed under it a chore in anything larger than your standard coffee mug. My dear friend the coffee maker was never more than a consumer device, but it was more than that to me. It was a provider of wakefulness, sanity, inspiration, and solace. Soon enough (this afternoon, I'm thinking) it will be succeeded by another coffee maker, but it can never be replaced. Rest in peace, dear friend. You served me, my friends, and my family well in this past almost-decade. It is now your turn for a coffee break.
The new coffee maker was acquired last night, and I was able to successfully program it so that I woke up to fresh coffee this morning: