Your morning coffee began a long way from your kitchen. High on a mountainside, nearly two kilometres up, in dark volcanic soil. The nights are cold up there, so the plants grow slowly, and slow growth makes a denser, sweeter bean.
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Here's something most people never see. Coffee starts as a fruit, a small red cherry. Pickers move along the rows by hand and take only the ripe ones. Split a cherry open and you'll find two pale seeds. Those seeds are the beans.
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Then comes patience. The cherries are spread out on raised beds and left in the sun for about three weeks. Someone turns them every hour so they dry evenly. The fruit shrivels, and the sugars soak into the seed.
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The roaster is where it gets dramatic. Two hundred degrees, the drum spinning, and then you hear it. A crackle, like popcorn. That's first crack. From here the roaster has seconds to decide. Wait too long and all that fruit turns to plain bitterness.
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Roasted coffee holds more aroma compounds than wine. That's the good news. The bad news is that most of them escape within a couple of weeks. Every day the bag sits open on the shelf, the cup gets a little flatter.
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At home, the last ninety seconds matter most. Grind right before you brew. Use water just off the boil. Then slow down and pour gently, and let the coffee bloom.
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So here's a small challenge for tomorrow. Find a bag with a roast date on it. Drink one cup black, without rushing. And ask where it grew. That mountain is in the cup.
