I’m waiting for my popcorn popper to cool off, having roasted a half-week’s worth of Ethiopian Harrar and getting ready to turn some Tanzanian Peaberry into some yummy yummy ish.
I have no clue where this need to have such control over my coffee came from. I never felt the urge in Portland (not with Stumptown within a decent walk), even though I probably could have saved myself a decent chunk of change. I didn’t even feel the need when I moved back to Iowa—coffee here sucks, for sure, but there was always something passable nearby that I could suffer through. Although I suppose the pretty penny I paid was the clincher—getting decent coffee in Des Moines is tricky, especially considering how everyone here likes their coffee fucking scorched, Starbucks-style.
Yeah, I guess it was the money what made my mind up.
Like most things I get into, I’ve really gotten the fuck into home-roasting; each bean gets its day in the sun, although I have to say the African beans tickle me the most. With apologies to my Colombian heads, give me an Ethiopian bean whenever.
The funny thing is that, now that I roast my own coffee and french press it, I don’t get crazy withdrawal headaches when I, say, don’t want to drink coffee on a given day. I notice it (lethargy, mostly, although it’s more apathy than lethargy), for sure, but it doesn’t…suck.
It could all just be placebo, mind-over-matter type ish, too. Who knows?