June 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
My dad measures everything in levels of “bonus”. He taught us how to take computers apart, duct tape almost anything together, find shortcuts through any electronic superstore, and lose anyone who couldn’t survive a family dinner (triple bonus).
On long car trips, we’d make him stop countless times to run, crossed-legged, into the nearest gas station, or on extra-special trips to Denver’s one-stop-shitshow, Casa Bonita (no bonus). He’d later get us back by cranking Enya and telling us that if we shook coffee cream containers for long enough, they’d turn to “bonus butter”. Without fail, we’d fall asleep as soon as our arms got tired.
Last night, I went to make a second pot of coffee and realized that I didn’t have any more beans, so I ran the water through the filter again and crossed my fingers. And as horrible as “double bonus coffee” tasted, I knew my dad would be proud.