Instant
I. In which the narrator confesses Now, I am a fusser. A fiddler. A snob. I treat making coffee as a serious job. I treat every brew like a small tense exam. I know where they grew, and I know who I am when the kettle goes hiss and the water goes pour in a slow snaily spiral — and counting — and more of the blooming, the swelling, the rising of cream, till the smell fills the kitchen like somebody's dream. I have views about roasting. I've views about grind. I own burrs. I own cones. I own quite a strong mind. And the truth, since we're here, and there's no one about: I am good at this. Really. Absurdly. Devout. II. In which none of that helps But some mornings I wake in a room I can't place, with my bag on the floor and the night on my face, and the power went off around quarter past three, and there's no one, and nothing, and nowhere, and me with a head like a drum and a mood like a stone, and I'd trade my whole kitchen for one cup alone. And there. By the kettle. Against the bare…