Somewhere, in the mess of boxes I carted to our new apartment, I have a 5-pound container of Maxwell House coffee.
I never wanted a 5-pound container of Maxwell House coffee.
When I moved into my apartment in Dyker Heights right after my divorce, Mom took me to BJs and bought me enough food to feed a circus of nomadic acrobats. Of that stash, I still have the coffee and the restaurant-size box of Splenda.
As I told Mom at the time, I don't really make coffee for myself. Even now, Devon and I make our own coffee only on the weekend. When I was living alone, I would grab some at the local bodega or drink the free, deadly coffee at work. Now, I have a 5-pound container of coffee that is almost five years old and not getting better with age. I don't even use Splenda anymore, since I switched to cofffee without sugar. I am screwed.
This coffee has become like the Gideon Bible. I can't throw it away, because Mom will strike me down. I can't use it, because it's gross. There's only so much I can use to absorb smells in the fridge.
This coffee will haunt me until I die. Thanks, Mom.