A Second Crack

At Life or Ot

Humans desire to fill empty spaces, whether they are paper coffee bags or the soul.

The second crack sounds of breaking toothpicks, the scent of the roasting beans fills the air, the Whirley Pop crank is rhythmic, and I find myself matching the music playing on my phone. I breathe in deeply, and yes, the smell is correct and it is time to empty the beans onto the strainer to cool. A good time to start a second batch.

“I swear to god, if you roast coffee one more time inside the kitchen,” she called from the other room, afraid to see the mess I was making, “you will be repainting the entire house.”

“No, I am outside,“ I call back. “I forgot to close the sliding door.” Yeah, I am happy the turkey fryer stand serves its function, and it is a much less smoke-filled experience; even I could see the smoke coloring the nineteen fifties canary yellow tiles above the stove. Two minutes later a call arrives from Georgia. My old boss from the restaurant, basically the only person I still talked to from before. He was planning on visiting for a tour of wineries and wanted to see us.

He stopped talking about the trip, “what is that noise, what are you doing?”

“Oh, I have a new hobby. I am roasting coffee.”

“Chris, why did you start roasting your own coffee,” my friend asks, his London-effect transposed over his Persian accent can be unintentionally condescending. “Don’t you have enough to do? What happened to the lamps you were making?” I think I hear laughter in his voice.

“Um, they weren’t all lamps, some were lighting features and they are kind of cool. And I still make them, but how many lamps. . . or lighting fixtures can you put in one house, and Liz won’t let me sell them, just in case my wiring starts a fire.”

I walk as we talk. “To be honest, since I stopped drinking, I need things to fill my time.” I pause. “When you aren’t drunk every night by eight, you have to find things to keep you occupied.”

“You were usually a pleasant drunk. But that was twelve years ago.” I prickle at being called a drunk, even if it was true. He knew I drank too much even back then, when I was working for him, but since I wasn’t also doing cocaine, and was an almost competent bartender, he forgave the not-so-occasional shot, or the very-often bourbon.

“It isn’t cute to be blackout drunk in your 40’s,” I respond, knowing I am stating the obvious.

“How is your sobriety (going)?” His tone is kind, although I do not feel I deserve kindness.

“It is okay. I haven’t slipped, not once. Liz and I are working through everything, which means lots of apologizing from me, and we do not bring up my fuckups every day, well most every day.” He allows my reflection without interruption, the background noise of the restaurant is distant but comforting.

“It isn’t easy, to be honest. Part of me misses being able to forget my mistakes, if only for a few hours.” I do not mention that I would also forget to feed the dogs, to close the refrigerator door overnight, where I put the rental keys on vacation, and, well, you get the idea.

I haven’t been turning the crank for the roasting beans and the wind changes, carrying the smell of burnt blackness. “Crap, I gotta go,” I exclaim, rushing towards the billows of white smoke. “I will send you a bag of the coffee, maybe I can be the official roaster for the restaurant,” and hang up without hearing his response. F*ck, I hate ruining a batch, but at least I didn’t roast it in the kitchen.

Coffee was allegedly discovered in the tenth century:

According to a story written down in 1671, coffee was first discovered by the 9th-century Ethiopian goat-herder Kaldi. While roaming the countryside of the Ethiopian kingdom Kaffa with his goats, he noticed, that his goats started behaving erratically when eating the fruits of a mid-sized, dark green shrubbery with yellow and red berries.

Following his curiosity, he took some of those stimulating “magic berries” with him to the next monastery to have its effects explained to him by the chaplain. Declaring it a devilish temptation, the chaplain furiously tossed the berries into the fire. Shortly after, the unique and aromatic smell of roasted coffee rose from the fire, beguiling the monks. They quickly saved the beans from the fire and, sooner or later, brewed the very first coffee.

https://www.espresso-international.com/where-does-coffee-come-from

I discovered roasting coffee in 2014, sometime after my year anniversary of sobriety, and after moving from Las Vegas to Ventura. Early sobriety feels more about survival, making it through each day, altering your daily life, forcing change in your daily patterns --which may be the reason meetings are held multiple times a day. For me, with enough time, I moved from thinking how do I stop doing the thing that I thought I needed every day for twenty years, knowing I was killing myself, to thinking about how to actually live. Living, I found was often boring and there was a lot of time to fill. After reading about a local roaster who started with a stovetop popcorn maker, and since I had a never used red model in our packed boxes, it seemed like a perfect hobby. Plus, I liked coffee and I drank it in the morning, with lunch, and usually a cup before dinner --an especially nice pairing with my post-AA cigarette addiction.

Because I am me, I started the roasting adventure without studying the craft or finding guidance from those who practiced the skill before. I purchased five pounds of green coffee from Brazil, off of a website dedicated to direct-to-grower bean sales, and excitedly rushed into my first batch, starting the adventure in our kitchen on the stovetop. I under roasted the first batch (what Starbucks would call a blonde roast) and then left the second batch on the fire too long. Some people like a blonde roast, but not me, the favor is shallow and weak; no one likes burnt coffee beans. The smell (and the taste, because I had to see how badly I ruined the second batch) is bitter and acid, hanging in the air, coating your tongue, and infusing into the window curtains. However, the third batch smelled like actual dark roasted coffee and even tasted . . . decent. After two cups, I was jittery and so very excited.

“SO,” I burst out as I enter the room, accosting Liz with my caffeinated excitement. “This is the first batch, try!” I am holding a cappuccino for her to try, my milk frothing skills are on point.

She looked up at me, her hands continuing with her beading, delicate gold wire in her left hand, while her tools form tiny knots around a gemstone. She looked but didn’t respond vocally, but her eyes told me she was equal parts amused and annoyed with the interruption. She put down her work, took a sip and I could read her face, she was surprised. “It is good.” I wasn’t going to earn praise for my first (almost successful) attempt. “But no more roasting in the house. You are leaving smoke all over the kitchen walls, and you do not clean the kitchen.” I am excited and I know it is good, not necessarily great, but it will get better with practice, or maybe I need to read more. Or maybe I just need another cup and I can figure it out later; god, coffee really provides delightful temporary energy, the opposite of alcohol.

About a week after my first positive roasting, and after ordering a turkey fryer base to move my enterprise to the back-porch, I am dying to talk about all that I have learned. “Did you know,” my morning default setting is exuberance; by nature I wake up and start the day with excitement, while some people need to wase their way into the day, “that the flavor of coffee beans can be significantly different based upon where it is grown?” I was finally reading about the art of coffee roasting. “All (good) coffee comes from the coffee belt, the area between the Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn?” There was no response, but it was rhetorical anyways; I am really liking two cups of coffee when I first wake up. “Kenya, for example, is known to produce fruity and wine-like flavor from the beans, while southern India (beans) have earthy notes. Coffee from Western Ghana is known for its bright acidity and fruity notes.” Her eyes were closed as she sipped her coffee in the morning sun, as the smoke from my cigarette lingered over the patio table. “Colombian coffee has cacao and caramel “hints”, with “mild citrus-like acidity, smooth body, and well-balanced flavor profile.” I was reading from my Ipad, multiple tabs opened to web pages describing coffee facts and reviews. “Ethiopian coffee is described as hints of citrus, lemons, and berries, which may be the result of the drying techniques of leaving the fruit still on the bean.”

“I have been reading and I think I need to be blending the beans.”

“Chris,” her voice was rising, “I really do not care, especially at ten in the morning.” She was right, I thought, maybe it is a little early for a lecture on the history and qualities of coffee; or maybe I should go back to only one cup before I eat breakfast, or at least only one breakfast cigarette. “Listen,” her voice was softening. “It is good. And if you want to change the coffee, I trust you.” I knew she was talking about the coffee and not us, but she said it. Three little words that I had not heard since November of the year before, ever since the day before I stopped drinking. There had been no trust, no belief in me, or in us.

Single origin coffee provides the unique tastes of the source. It is pure and distinct, but I found that it can appear flat, or shallow. Blended coffee takes the tastes of each of the sources, even their imperfections or faults, and combines to a balance and to compliment. But what would be the best ratio of beans? What would be the best regions to bring together?

During the holidays we made a trip to Flagstaff, Arizona, where I first lived after I escaped from my childhood home town, and where I spent my first year at college. We visited my favorite coffee house --my favorite coffee house in North America, and stepped to the edge of the counter, hoping one of the baristas would look up from their tasks so that I could interrogate, quiz them as to their house blend. What was their secret and would they share it with me?

“Yes, we select and roast our coffee. But we do not share our blend. You could be a competitor,” she said with a politely fake laugh. “I promise, I won’t tell anyone. I do not live here and I promise not to open a competing chain. I just need to know what I am missing, or what is the best blend to use, and you have the best coffee.” She may have taken pity or just wanted me to move out of her space, “let me ask the manager.” A few minutes later she returned and gave me the secret: (which I promised not to share and I cannot break my word.)

Upon returning home, and with a month or two of tinkering with different ratios of three different beans, my house coffee blend was born and it has not changed in over a decade. I cannot claim that it rivals Macys, but Liz did insist that I continue with the roasting and give up the lamps. Trust and forgiveness, it seems, comes from the taste buds and not illuminating darkened rooms.

Epilogue:

I haven’t roasted coffee since July 2023. With her diagnosis, roasting coffee occupied time that I could otherwise spend providing support or love. I try to purchase coffee from Macys, online or in person when I visit, but admit that there have been times I have resorted to mass-produced. Even after her death I haven’t roasted a single bean. I have time, plenty of time, but my desire, my ability to enjoy –to savor a really goodcup of coffee has not returned. But recently, when reading about a familial connection to making olives, I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, I need to consider starting again.

And yes, here are the lamps.

And this was more of a lark: