My best friend Pat

Adam and I drink great quantities of coffee every day and into the evening. Caffeinated, dark French roast. "Fresh pot's a-brewin', Ma" is always welcome news from Adam as he heads toward his office from the kitchen.

Pat, on the other hand, drinks two cups with her breakfast and that's it. And hers is a much milder brew than ours.

I have always been a bit snobby about my coffeemakers, believing somehow that a black-and-stainless steel carapace, combined with a European brand name, makes for better coffee. Pat happily swears by her Mr. Coffee.

Thus we do not drink from the same pot.

Both my DeLonghi and backup (yeah, we have a backup!) Cuisinart croaked last night, one right after the other -- leaving me to contemplate a dispiriting scenario for the morrow -- no comforting first cup, a prolonged stupor until I could haul myself down the road to Java Station for a fix.

Imagine my utter delight when I slumped into the kitchen this morning and saw Pat's coffee pot emblazoned with a great pink heart Post-it, which told me immediately what was in it, what she'd done. She'd made my coffee in her pot, and it was steaming hot and ready for me.

It was such a terrific gesture (I'm smiling ear-to-ear even now, as I write this) and produced just about the best cup of coffee I've ever had.

And oh, yeah. It seems that neither pot is reparable in anything like a short timeframe. So I had to go up to Bed, Bath and Beyond to get a new one. Wanna guess what brand I chose? I walked right past the Krups and the other fancy European marques, and went straight for the...Mr. Coffee!