Brewing On

“You only have thirty minutes to make yourself coffee,” I thought while preparing for work. After mentally sticking to yesterday’s grind-size setting, I manually ground the coffee beans—the sound of the metal burr overpowering the morning news on the television. I then peeked at the recipe I followed, conveniently stuck on the fridge door. The smell of the beans was already permeating the room as I waited for the water to boil. Soon enough, I was pouring hot water in forty-five-second intervals. I would lean in, keeping a close eye on the height of the water and listening intently as drops of liquid gold hit the bottom of the mug. When it was finally silent, and I could see the grounds clearly, I picked up my coffee.

It usually takes me around forty minutes—from preparation to cleanup. I’m not kidding when I say this is already faster than when I first started brewing coffee, out of curiosity and, perhaps, an effort to sustain a conversation (?).

Before this, I often read and heard that a good cup of coffee was wonderfully extracted. It was not sour—where the bean could have had more flavor. Nor was it bitter—where the flavors were too intense that you could barely taste anything. They told me that there is a bit of science and art behind variables like temperature, time, and even the grind size of your coffee, among others. Of course, at the start, these were all alien to me. However, with time, practice, and a little encouragement from people I love, I found myself slowly settling into the forty-minute routine.

My parents would watch me fiddle with the instruments and see me enamored by the coffee brewing in front of me. At first, they were concerned about how much time it took out of my mornings (and sometimes evenings if I had decaffeinated beans), but they soon saw how it gave me time for both concentration and relaxation. There were days my face would wrinkle after tasting the coffee—either too sour or too bitter. I would then spend a moment thinking about where it went wrong. Sometimes, people in the house would hear me as I verbalized. Was it because my grind size was too coarse? Too fine? Was the water not hot enough? Hmmm. But on days when the result was sweet, I reveled in the moment the coffee landed in my mouth, captivated by the liquid taking shape in the container I was holding. I would savor it and try to pick out the various flavor notes (though my vocabulary and muscle memory still need improvement). This day was one of those days.

On days like this, I again realize how much trial and error has contributed to the coffee I’m drinking now. I recall how many times I made bitter coffees and many more sour-tasting ones (much to the dismay of my pocket), and how I would adjust the amount of coffee or try out a different recipe. Normally, I would still drink the bitter or sour coffee—perhaps as a reminder that the consequences of a not-so-ideal extraction were real and that I could taste them in the cup. But there are rare times when I find a seemingly foolproof way to make my coffee and end up with something I couldn’t finish because it tasted awful. I would comfort and restrain myself from brewing another batch. “There’s still tomorrow,” I would tell myself.

On days like this, I remind myself of how time and dedication play out in making a cup of joe. I recall reading and searching through discussion boards and shyly talking to local baristas who were patient enough to entertain my “Google-able” questions just to find what works. It takes me several minutes, if not hours, mainly because most of what I stumble upon is too technical—I almost feel like I’m reading a foreign language. Ultimately, it leads me to try out coffees made by others whenever my budget permits and to figure out what I like: fruity, floral, or chocolate. (I read that there are more than these three.)

Finally, on days like this, the universe tells me that this cup of joe I’m enjoying is also luck. Most times, the beans I get from a roaster seem consistent. Sometimes, stores nearby run out of whole beans, and I end up with ground coffee instead, which is different from what the recipe calls for. Sometimes, a coffee I have yet to try is on sale, and I buy a bag. Sometimes, it hits right, and sometimes, it misses.

On days like these, I bring coffee to work and take a sip. I sometimes forget that my tumbler has coffee and get pleasantly surprised by this warm, delightful drink. But I always think those forty minutes were worth it.

On days like this, I ask myself, am I still talking about good coffee, or am I already talking about this guy I used to date?

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About the Writer:

Ann Ross is a mental health professional and an educator. She loves coffee, although she has had to cut back on caffeine. She would very much like to read a good book, preferably one that is not work-related. Aside from her personal and career side quests, she dreams of walking the El Camino one day.

The People’s Archive is grateful to have her voice as part of this space. Her work is published on her Substack, which you can find linked below.

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