Coffee crisis

Good news. We're still married.

Bad news. Andrew melted my coffee maker.

I shouldn't complain. He makes me a morning coffee -- actually, a morning latte - every day. Weekends included. He brings it to me in bed and always says, "Please accept this fine cup of coffee -- with my compliments." It's romantic. It's thoughtful. It's delicious. And on Friday, it came to an abrupt, smoky end.

Andrew, bless his big heart and tiny attention span, melted the cafetiera by returning the empty pot to a live element. No one noticed until the kitchen was thick with smoke and the smell of melting rubber. No problem, he said. We'll buy a replacement.

In a city with coffee shops on every corner, more Planet Bean blends than parking spaces and a passion for everything even remotely environmentally friendly, buying a stainless steel stove top espresso maker should be easy. Instead, replacing my faithful cafetiera turned into a quest that rivals Monty Python's Holy Grail. Okay, we didn't come across any knights that said Ni, or killer rabbits, but a trip to the mall a mere month before Christmas requires more than an imaginary horse and coconuts.

We found fancy espresso machines that will set you back a mortgage payment, Breast Cancer pink percolators, self-timing Mr Coffees with a holding tank you can swim in, and Bodums, Bodums, Bodums and more Bodums. One store did have cafetieras -- aluminum ones. Don't try these. They impart a metallic taste and stain quickly.

In the end, Andrew was forced to leave town.

Like King Arthur, he returned victorious - in lieu of Excalibur, I accepted a Vigano 3-cup, 18/10 stainless steel cafetiera. Crisis averted. Or so I thought.

This morning, he made me a wonderful latte. And melted the handle.

Where's a killer rabbit with you need one?