If you know me outside of the internets, you probably know that coffee is one of my first and truest, most lasting, most satisfying, rarely disapointing loves. It's not just the jangly-nerved workaholic in me that loves me my dark-as-tar brew; it's the softer (grudgingly romantic, occasionally tree-hugging, nostalgia-soaked) side of me that associates coffee with some of my fondest memories. Coffee reminds me of San Francisco, Vancouver, Paris, Madison, Chicago--even goddamn JUNEAU--all at the same time. It's also the one indulgence I allow myself when I'm living out of a boat/backpant/tent what-have-you, so when I think of my "trips"--Porcupine Mountains, Bandalier, French RIver, Boundary Waters, north shore of Lake Superior, Sucia Island, San Bernadino mountains, etc.--my morning coffee connects them all.
Like many passionate addicts, I'm both a coffee snob and a coffee whore. I like my coffee medium-dark roasted (too dark tastes ashy), full-bodied, and french pressed after being ground slightly too fine for french press, which qualifies me as a snob, now scarred for life after living in Portland (because nowhere in the US outwise of the PNW has comparable brew, and Stumptown, a Portland company, is the end-all and be-all of PNW coffee, in my opinion). At the same time, though, if desperation/addiction requires it, I WILL drink whatever's available. It's kind of like college guys with sex.
I thought my Sweet Baby (Matt) was the end-all-and be-all of Portland coffee snobs. He works at Stumptown, is a Stumptown-trained barista, and displays all the snobbery that comes with that snobby-ass snooty-snob territory. Worth notingis that in many places on the West Coast "barista" is a rather competitive profession, not a crappy service-industry job. I share many of Sweet Baby's beliefs, though my knowledge about the finer details of espresso-slinging pales in comparison to his.
HOWEVER!
This week one of my PSU professor-friends REFUSED my gift of a pound of Stumptown, claiming that any commercially sold coffee is not fresh enough for him. So how, you may wonder, and indeed, I asked, does he get his fix? His shocking response: HE BUYS RAW BEANS AND ROASTS HIS OWN. Though deep-down I admired his dedication, I mocked his (what I called) excessive snobbery (as opposed to Matt's and my own, which I thought was approaching the upper limits of appropriate), and happily kept the Stumptown coffee for myself. Then he emailed me yesterday asking me to come by his office, where he gifted me with a half-pound of his own home-roasted beans.
AND HOLY CRAP. IT WAS SO GOOD.
I've begrudgingly decided that I might try the same, and I guess there are all these online places you can order your own raw beans so you can roast them and then, like, DRINK YOUR COFFEE THE SAME DAY IT'S ROASTED.
New height of nerdiness: attained!
Holy hell's bells.
Like many passionate addicts, I'm both a coffee snob and a coffee whore. I like my coffee medium-dark roasted (too dark tastes ashy), full-bodied, and french pressed after being ground slightly too fine for french press, which qualifies me as a snob, now scarred for life after living in Portland (because nowhere in the US outwise of the PNW has comparable brew, and Stumptown, a Portland company, is the end-all and be-all of PNW coffee, in my opinion). At the same time, though, if desperation/addiction requires it, I WILL drink whatever's available. It's kind of like college guys with sex.
I thought my Sweet Baby (Matt) was the end-all-and be-all of Portland coffee snobs. He works at Stumptown, is a Stumptown-trained barista, and displays all the snobbery that comes with that snobby-ass snooty-snob territory. Worth notingis that in many places on the West Coast "barista" is a rather competitive profession, not a crappy service-industry job. I share many of Sweet Baby's beliefs, though my knowledge about the finer details of espresso-slinging pales in comparison to his.
HOWEVER!
This week one of my PSU professor-friends REFUSED my gift of a pound of Stumptown, claiming that any commercially sold coffee is not fresh enough for him. So how, you may wonder, and indeed, I asked, does he get his fix? His shocking response: HE BUYS RAW BEANS AND ROASTS HIS OWN. Though deep-down I admired his dedication, I mocked his (what I called) excessive snobbery (as opposed to Matt's and my own, which I thought was approaching the upper limits of appropriate), and happily kept the Stumptown coffee for myself. Then he emailed me yesterday asking me to come by his office, where he gifted me with a half-pound of his own home-roasted beans.
AND HOLY CRAP. IT WAS SO GOOD.
I've begrudgingly decided that I might try the same, and I guess there are all these online places you can order your own raw beans so you can roast them and then, like, DRINK YOUR COFFEE THE SAME DAY IT'S ROASTED.
New height of nerdiness: attained!
Holy hell's bells.
Recent Comments