Thomas Merton once wrote: “I love beer, and, by that very fact, the world.” This statement is at once whimsical and puzzling. How does a fondness for pale ale stray into a confession of love for the world? Perhaps Merton suggests a fundamental relationship between the mundane and the sublime, the miniscule and the cosmical. Ask a brewer for the essential ingredients of a tasty lager, and one gets the usual: barley, hops, yeast and water. A monk answers differently: In order to make beer, we first need a universe! That everything exists is the supposition from which we conduct our affairs. However, if we take the world as given, the world becomes invisible to us, left out of the calculus of our undertakings. Yet, as we observe the wholeness of the universe, where there cannot be one part without the myriad others, we see how one is implicated in all, and all is implicated in one. There is no preference a la carte. If Merton loved beer, he had no choice but to love the world.
Following Merton, I shall say that I love coffee, and by that very fact, the world. Coffee is the warm embrace that ushers me from darkness and into the light of a new day. The aroma curls under skin and calls forth a vitality that gladly meets the gift of life. I look forward to coffee when I rise from bed. It is a force that draws me to the day’s possibilities.
Every coffee lover is confronted with choices as to how best to make their favourite drink. There are drip machines that require little from the user beyond pouring grounds and water into the machine and pressing a button. This method strikes me as too reliant on the rote function of appliances. The ease of operation eliminates skillful (and mindful) craft. Others take the morning cup into the realm of high art. Exquisite machines and an assortment of implements compress, steam and brew a flavourful shot espresso, the finest nectar of the Rubiaceae shrub. I am partial to the care and expertise that goes into such a cup, the connoisseurship that makes Americanos and Cappuccinos delectable. However, the extravagance of cost and the lack of space prevent me from procuring these shiny contraptions. Instead, I opt for the simplest and most elegant method of coffee-making: a French Press.
The preparation of coffee is imbued with a ritualistic form that is becoming of a sacrament. Pour the beans into a grinder. Click-clack beat of beans hitting cold metal. A devilish whirl of blades. Remove the lid and indulge in the aroma: chocolate, almond, caramel, strawberry, wet stone. The kettle begins to hum. Jets of steam shoot from the nozzle. The kettle rings. I pour hot water to warm the glass container. Two scoops of fresh coffee grounds. The water sloshes and gurgles. Ribbons of steam and tumbling grinds; foam the colour of Sahara sand. A quick stir with a chopstick evens out the brew. Particles fly against the glass in a black tornado. The press mounts and gathers the particles through storms of flavour. A silky lining of foam collects at the surface. I pour the coffee into the mug. Swish and slosh of hot fluid. A dash of cream. Amber clouds rising in a black sky.
The first sip rounds the palate. Buttery nut and ripe fruit, scent of creamy popcorn upon exhale. With this sip, I embrace the sky, the clouds, the rain, the soil, searing sun that coaxes the tree, the berries that host each bean. The farmer’s hands, the burlap bag, the worn baskets, the weathered truck, the humid afternoon in an equatorial country. I drink it all in. Coffee is the flavour of the universe.
Outside, the sky is breaking from blue-black to shades of coral pink. The glass faces of the city brightens with coming light. The din of traffic begins to heave. The day beckons. A good life does not need spectacular pleasures and thrilling delights. We touch the goodness of life in the small prizes that comprise the mundane. Start with a cup of coffee. Drink it mindfully and with gratitude. Everything else falls into place.