I knew it was going to be a great day, just by the taste of the coffee. I had long-since established that the best coffee only tastes as good as the drinker feels, and, today, nestled on the couch by the fire with the windows frosted over in the morning sun, I felt good. It had already been three days since the blizzard. The power was still out, but this cottage had been built not to need it.
As I drained the cup, the door burst open. A blast of freezing air, a flurry of flakes, and the shadowy outline of a Sasquatch appeared in the frame, grinning broadly. The figure trudged across the room, leaving a trail of snowy footprints, and dumped a load of wood on the hearth to dry in the heat. Shortly, the air warmed, the flakes melted and the Sasquatch removed his numerous layers of woollen clothing to reveal his tousled hair and cold-rosened cheeks. Eitan gratefully reached for the mug I held out to him, billowing steam visible in the sunlight that streamed in from the cloudless, piercing blue sky outside.
Yes, I thought to myself; the coffee tastes good today.