I made coffee this morning and poured a cup but headed out without drinking it. That was about eight hours ago. Walking into the kitchen with my wife to begin making dinner, I spotted the cup of French Roast on the counter.

“Ah, coffee,” I said. “I forgot I had this.”

I downed the cup’s contents.

As I did, my wife made gagging and puking noises. I set down the cup and laughed as she expressed her horror. “Coffee is supposed to be consumed at the proper temperature.”

I frowned back. After four decades of drinking coffee, including cold, foul office instant in the field with the military, she was suggested there was a right temperature?

Naw, man. Coffee is coffee, hot or cold, long as there are no foreign objects like bugs, dirt, cigar or cigarette butts and human or animal body fluids and parts in it.

I do have standards, you know.