THE BLOG
06/19/2010 05:12 am ET | Updated May 25, 2011

Champagne Wishes and Civet Poop Dreams?

In a world where ordering a cup of coffee at Starbucks makes the theory of relativity look like something Einstein came up with while on a bender, it's no surprise that in the year of 2010, the best part of waking up may no longer be Folgers in your cup.

That said, one could hardly imagine, that Indonesian weasel poop would become all the rage with the world's upper crust.

In a New York Times article published just in time for me to enjoy over a cup of Keurig Green Mountain roast, while watching Meet the Press, during my Sunday morning malaise, the Gray Lady reports that in remote regions of Southeast Asia, the civet, a nocturnal, furry, long-tailed catlike animal, produces the world's latest version of java supremacy.

It seems these not-so-cuddly creatures root around in the coffee-fertile lands for the tastiest and ripest coffee cherries, swallow them down, ferment the fuck out of them in their tiny tummies and then, in what could only be compared to as finding a diamond in the rough, they excrete the indigestible innards of the fruit into clustered clumps, just waiting for some enterprising villager to whip out the pooper scooper and doggy bag his way to fame and fortune, or at a minimum, $227 a pound.

It's no wonder that the same people that chase fish eggs and bloated duck livers with fermented grape juice would consider diarrhea demitasse a delicacy. I'm the first to admit, as a full-fledged non-foodie, that ground crocus blossoms and piggie proffered fungi don't do much to pepper my palette. But while sophisticated foodstuffs may be lost on this Midwestern girl next door, surely even the elitist of the elite must realize that rooting through nature's litter box to brew a cup of joe is pretty fucking ridiculous.

Please realize, it's not that I'm averse to tasting the fine and the exotic.

I'm an avid watcher of Top Chef.

I can pork my way through a prix fixe with the best of DC's debutantes.

I even have a recurring sexual fantasy involving Anthony Bourdain and a perfectly cooked blow fish.

But even I have limits and cat dropping coffee may be it.

Last night, for example, while sucking down St Germain cocktails and gabbing with a girlfriend, I decided, against my better judgment, to try a goose egg with a side of frisse and some duck cracklings.

The frisse was lovely. And although I inhaled the cracklings like they were straight out of a pipe, the ginormous egg that peered at me from the plate looked like a chicken abortion on performance enhancing steroids.

Keeping in mind that an omelet is just an omelet, I dove in.

As I ate away at the white surroundings, making my way to the sun-shaped middle, I started to think my fear of reaching the proverbial yoke summit was ill-conceived and amateurish.

I thought wrong.

As I bit into the liquid yellow center, I only had one thought.

Cheeseburger ASAP.

It was the only thing that could possibly wash away the gamey undertones with the side of ick that was congealing in my epiglottis.

As my friend relished her fried duck livers and asparagus, I took another gulp of my cocktail and apologized for the half eaten fowl fetus on my plate.

Like a trooper (and a grown-up) she grabbed some bread and soaked that joy juice up with panache and a smile.

Thankfully, my gal pal isn't the judgmental type and if she is, she hides it well.

So after some girl banter and one more drink, we paid the bill and hit the mean streets of Adams Morgan.

I kissed my friend goodbye, caught a cab, half-attempted to understand what the Ethiopian driver was saying as he spoke into his Bluetooth, and enjoyed the ride home with the window down.

But as we neared the corner with the Exxon station, I yelled "stop!"

"I mean, sorry, could we just stop here for a second? I need to run in and get something."

The cabbie probably assumed I was grabbing some last minute prophylactics or some emergency Tampax.

When I reached the counter, I acted like the pack of Marlboros was the reason I was really there and the can of Beefaroni was just an afterthought.

As soon as I got home and changed into my sweats, turned the tube on, and poured myself a frozen snifter of Absolut, I opened that pop-top can, poured those red-tinted, gluten loaded noodles into a bowl and microwaved my belly to bliss.

Some may need marmot made mocha to get their culinary rocks off.

I just need some quality time with a top-notch chef and his meaty goodness.