One of my fondest boyhood memories is lying in bed beneath the covers on a cold winter morning while my father got up to make a pot of Maxwell House. “Wake up and smell the coffee!” he’d yell. And we’d all groan.
He’d put the pot on the gas stove, and as it started to percolate, the house would fill up with the robust aroma of coffee … until it bubbled over and my mother would scream from the bedroom, “THE COFFEE’S BOILING OVER! YOU’RE GONNA RUIN THAT STOVE!” I suppose it was a small price to pay for a good cup of joe. Besides, his name was Joe, my name was Joe and my mother’s name was Josephine, and if three Joes can’t brew a good cup of java, who can?