For several days I was on a tea-n-toast kick. Tea with cream-n-sugar, and orange marmalade toast...sometimes with just a hint of peanut butter beneath it. I come home from work, sit on the bottom stair-step and gaze out the window at the sunrise and mist over the river...and crunch my toast. Sometimes I've wondered why I did not adopt my parents love of coffee. I truly do appreciate many things about it...the hearty aroma of hospitality, an invitation to wake hangs in the air sweetly familiar as an old friend longing for your company. It lures me. But the actual flavor lets me down. It reminds me of the fairy lights which lured the hobbits off their path repeatedly for all their trouble nary a desirable thing was found there. Misled again. That's the way it is for me. It's a love affair with someone who's not all they were cracked up to be. Knowing that fully well, still I keep up my part of the romance. I buy it still for all the sensual reasons, not counting my sense of taste. I long to be enveloped in that scent, let it waken me, tantalize me. But I can't understand why the whole world can be in love with the actual imbibed product and for me it does nothing. What is wrong with me? For one thing, I rationalize, it does NOT taste like it smells. It's a tease, a smoking! Plus, unless you are kissed by a coffee sipper who just recently breath is like the back end of a jack ass. So, why even bother to wash away your morning breath when the follow up is 10X worse? Hmmmm. If only it tasted as good as it smells. Now I've sipped a good lot of java...having begun sipping in elementary school. However!