Espresso
Cecili was supposed to be home yesterday. A snowstorm along I-81 pushed it to today. Emerson was wildly disappointed. I decided not to be, because it wouldn't help.
I've taught myself this over the years: do not spend energy on conditions you cannot change. Adapt. Solve. Move. It was one more day. One day in the longest stretch Cecili and I have been apart in almost twenty-four years of marriage. She texted at 10:10 this morning when she left Brevard. I didn't check on her after that. She'll get here when she gets here. Watching doesn't speed it up.
I was sad, yes. But sad is manageable.
So this morning I got up, let the dogs out, and made espresso.
I came to espresso through a health decision, not a lifestyle one. I have familial hypercholesterolemia, and French press coffee, which I had been drinking for years, is high in cafestol, a compound that raises LDL cholesterol. Espresso has significantly less. The switch was not optional.
But once I started, I discovered something I hadn't expected: a domain with extraordinary depth. Grind size. Dose weight. Extraction time. Water temperature. Pressure. Tamping consistency. The variables interact in ways that reward precision and punish autopilot. I have a deep capacity to get up to speed quickly in new domains, to move past the surface and into the mechanics of how something actually works. Espresso engaged that part of my brain immediately.
The machine is a Breville Barista Express Impress. I chose it deliberately: capable enough to teach me real technique, approachable enough for Cecili to use when she wants to. I'll upgrade eventually. I'm already thinking about the Decent. But for now, learning on this machine is the work.
Dialing in a shot is a specific kind of practice. You change one variable. You pull. You taste. You adjust. There is no room for abstraction. The shot is either balanced or it isn't. The feedback is immediate, physical, and honest.
In a season where most of my life feels diffuse, espresso is one space where inputs and outputs are clear. I control the grind. I control the dose. I control the tamp. The machine does the rest. And what comes out tells me exactly how well I paid attention.
There is a second layer to this that I did not expect to matter as much as it does.
I'm not just learning espresso for myself. I'm learning it for Cecili. Her morning latte is something I can give her. Stumptown Hairbender, Oatly Barista Edition frothed with the Nanofoamer, poured into an Owala tumbler so it stays warm until she wakes up. I don't know when she'll be up. I don't control that. But I can control whether something good is waiting for her when she is.
Over time, the math works too. The cost of buying equipment and beans amortizes against years of not buying lattes out. That appeals to the operator in me. But that's not why I do it.
I do it because making something precise and good for someone I love is a small, controllable thing.
She'll drive in after dark. It will be too late for coffee. We'll order something simple for dinner. The house will feel different.
But tomorrow morning, before anyone else is up, I'll grind the beans. Dial the shot. Froth the milk. Pour it into the tumbler and leave it on the counter.
She won't see the work. She'll just have a good latte.
That's enough.
Ken Wake is the author of Thinking Design (forthcoming) and a Professor and Entrepreneur in Residence at Georgetown University. His work explores systems, technology, design, and meaning. Tour de Ken is his weekly log.
