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It was a Sunday morning.
White light was coming in through the curtains.
The air after the rain drifted faintly in through a gap in the window.
Outside, it was quiet.
I took the beans out of the fridge.
I pick up the grinder.
My favorite.
Machined from aluminum, with a weight that settles into the hand.
When I open the drawer, a faint trace of the beans I ground last time is still there.
I weigh the beans.
15 grams.
Same as always.
I start turning the handle.
At first it’s a little stiff.
But once the beans begin to crack, it turns gritty under the hand.
The scent of fresh grounds rises all at once.
This scent, acidity and sweetness mixed together.
Because of this scent, I can’t give up grinding by hand.
I fill the kettle and put it on the flame.
I set the thermometer beside it.
Today, I thought, 91 degrees.
I set up the dripper.
A flower dripper — its petal-like ribs catching the light and glinting faintly.
I set the paper filter and wet it with hot water.
The smell of paper fades away.
The thermometer needle climbs slowly.
The scent of coffee begins to spread through the kitchen.
90 degrees.
91 degrees.
I lift the gooseneck kettle.
From the tip of the spout, the water falls like a fine thread.
From the center, in circles.
No hurry. Slowly.
The grounds swell.
The thirty seconds of the bloom are time spent watching that swell.
The beans are breathing, I think.
The fresher the beans, the bigger the dome.
Today’s swelled nicely.
The second pour.
Thin again, and slow.
Each time the water touches the grounds, the scent changes.
First, a sharp, acidic scent.
Little by little, the sweetness comes out.
The third pour.
A little more water now, poured to the end.
At the last, a touch of bitterness mixes in.
I love this time, following the change with my eyes and nose.
It isn’t something I could explain to anyone.
I don’t expect to be understood, either.
I just love it.
One cup’s worth has dripped into the server.
I pour it into the cup.
Steam rises slowly.
The scent fills the room.
I take a sip.
I closed my eyes.
Acidity first, then sweetness, and last, just a trace of bitterness that lingers.
Today’s cup was good.
The tools are lined up in the kitchen.
Grinder, kettle, dripper, scale, thermometer, cup.
I didn’t collect them to show anyone.
But I love looking at them in a row.
Each has its reason; each one, I chose.
Every time I use them, I think I chose right.
By the time the cup was empty, it had grown bright outside.
I stood up and picked up my cue case.
When I walked into the pool hall, the usual air was there.
Jazz was playing faintly.
Light fell on the green of the cloth.
I assemble the cue.
I feel its weight.
The feel of tightening the joint settles into my hand.
I chalk the tip.
The blue powder settles slowly onto the leather.
Somehow it feels like choosing beans.
I judge the cut.
I take aim.
I steady my breath.
I slowly deliver the cue.
The ball rolls.
In the quiet hall, only a small sound remained.
Time spent with the things you love needs no explanation.
I don’t expect anyone to understand.
I simply love that time, and so I keep at it.
That alone, I think, is enough.
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