I ate breakfast with a woman last week who in the course of 20 minutes sent four cups of

coffee back to the kitchen because they didn't meet her standards. There was a

drip-brewed cup with milk. There were two lattes and a lotte with oat milk. I'm not a newcomer in this world, but I have never met

a person with such exquisitely fine taste in the coffee realm.

Wine, yes, coffee now.

I say this with all due admiration it would be so easy to reproach her what with you

know wars and starvation and natural disasters and global warming and doxing and polls showing that a majority of Americans support blatant dishonesty and corruption, but I don't go down the shaming road.

I come from Middle American.

The part of the U.S. not mentioned in geography classes in schools on the

East and West Coast. So if you tell someone there, L.A. New York, that you're from Minnesota, you may as well say Moldova or Burundi.

And in Minnesota we're grateful for any dark warm beverage that you bring us.

Probably Moldovans and Burundians feel likewise.

Post-em, Maxwell House instant, coffee made from ground acorns, whatever, thank you so

very much.

As a result of coming from an insignificant place, I have no critical skills whatsoever.

I could no more review a book than I could dance the tango. I go to an orchestra concert and I enjoy looking around at nicely dressed people and the music sounds pretty good too.

Now and then my socks are now. The music sounds pretty good too.

Now and then my socks are knocked off, but mostly I pull them back up.

So I was astounded to see her hold a coffee cup up and say to the waiter,

this tastes like it came from a machine.

It was like having breakfast with someone who suddenly pulls a ukulele out of her purse and

sings put on a hulu in Hawaiian.

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