Coffee is probably my most beloved, longest-standing vice. I’ve tried several times in the past few years to cut it out of my daily habits, but that never lasts, and quite honestly, I just don’t want to badly enough. I love it. I love being a snob about it. I love the silly subculture of snobby coffee aficionados. I love finding the perfect spot in the perfect coffee shop, and laying out my things and digging into work over a well-made macchiato by a tattooed barista with thick-rimmed glasses. Maybe it’s part of being from Seattle, and our love of brooding in low-lit rooms (everyone’s winter palor looks better in the lamp light), but coffee is simply a love I cannot quit. I’m certain there are worse things to be addicted to.
On Sundays, I have time to really savor the process of making it for myself and the housemates. On good weekends, when we have fresh beans in the house from one of several local roasters, we leave the grocery store pre-ground stuff on the shelf and go for the special brews.
Zoka is well loved in this city. I was given this bag a few days ago, and have been waiting for a good morning to try it. Someone recently chastised me for believing that dark roast equates with richer/better flavor, and I get it now: this apple-chocolate-caramel thing is a symphony on my tongue. I’m in love.
In the past, I’ve used a chemex pour-over and even sometimes a hand-grinder for the beans. Some might say that’s over the top, and frankly, I rarely had patience for it to be a daily routine. French press is my favorite method because its quicker, but still preserves the oils and delicate flavors in the beans, and I really enjoy the process:
Grind. Scoop big heaping spoonfuls. Stick nose in grounds, feel elated. Boil water. Wait 15 seconds so the grounds won’t scald. Slowwwwww pour in a circular motion. Watch the bubbles and the creamy head form. Cover, wait for things to settle. Push, pour. Drink. Be happy.