Coffee Maker

SANITY ON BACKORDER

From Hive Peak Boulevard

By Danu Marche

Humor Columnist

Published: May 11, 2025

Synapse & Spectacle

⸻

This week, my coffee maker refused to make coffee until it had coffee.

This is not a metaphor. At 6:42 a.m., I pressed the brew button, and the machine just sat there, radiating the same exhausted indifference I was feeling. I swear it muttered, “You first.” Which is impressive, because it doesn’t have a speaker. Or a soul. Allegedly.

By the third jab at the button, I realized my coffee maker and I have the same personality flaws: slow to start, prone to sulking, and only functional after caffeine. It’s like living with a roommate who owes rent but insists on being tucked in before work.

I even tried the usual pep talk — “You can do this, buddy. We’ve got deadlines!” — but it blinked its little light like a nurse taking pity on a delusional patient.

Maybe it’s my fault. Machines pick up your energy, right? That’s why your printer starts asking philosophical questions before producing your W-2. But it’s hard to believe a countertop appliance could develop my brand of self-sabotage without some level of conscious rebellion.

Halfway through plotting its replacement, I noticed steam rising — not from brewing, but from what I can only describe as a single, disgruntled sigh. The thing was stalling. I’ve seen toddlers eat broccoli faster.

And, naturally, the squirrel saw all of this. Today’s sighting: perched on the back fence holding what appeared to be a demitasse cup, pinkie claw extended, watching me like a disappointed café critic. It didn’t sip anything, which somehow made it worse.

Of course, the internet is full of “hacks” for jump-starting reluctant coffee makers: run vinegar through it, whisper affirmations, dance counterclockwise under a waning moon. But my trust in online solutions is thin — last time I followed one, I ended up with a fridge that smelled like herbal tea for three weeks.

Still, I gave the vinegar trick a shot. The coffee maker responded by producing something the exact color of horrification. One taste and I’m convinced this is how new religions start: a bitter liquid, a crisis of faith, and the sudden urge to write commandments.

Meanwhile, my morning was slipping away. No coffee meant no functioning brain, which meant I was Googling “how to spell coffee” while staring at the empty mug in my hand. I could feel the loop tightening — caffeine withdrawal feeding procrastination, procrastination feeding despair.

And just when I thought the situation had reached maximum absurdity, the machine sprang to life. No warning, no apology. Just full-on brewing like it hadn’t been holding my day hostage. I swear I heard it snicker.

So now I’m in a one-sided détente: I clean its filter; it occasionally delivers coffee without a hostage negotiation. But I know it’s just a matter of time before it demands some goat-milk tribute or threatens to unionize with the toaster.

Until then, I’ll keep playing along — because I’ve seen what happens when it’s truly done with me. And because, honestly, it’s the only appliance I own that really understands me.

“If your coffee maker has ever demanded coffee before it will make coffee, please send instructions. And maybe a spare demitasse cup for the squirrel.”

©2025 Danu Marche