I’m a latecomer to the whole cold-brewed, cold-pressed, coffee-sludge-turned-black-gold, iced coffee bandwagon.
I’ve ignored the recipes on Smitten Kitchen, Pioneer Woman and all those other recipe blogs, likely because the photos of muddy coffee grounds looked too much like burbling asphalt on a 110-degree afternoon, which does not inspire a trip to the kitchen.
And I didn’t have time for two-day coffee. Or so I thought.
But I made some last weekend, tempted mostly by the headline in a food magazine that said, “Serious Iced Coffee.” The accompanying photo showed cream swirling through a glass of black liquid like a cascading waterfall of bliss, and I wondered if someone had airbrushed subliminal messages onto the ice cubes:
“You are getting sleeeeepy! … You need coffeeeeee …”
Whatever the case, I fetched coffee grounds, water and a ceramic bowl.
I combined a cup of ground coffee with 1 1/2 cups room-temperature water.
I mixed. I stirred. I remembered childhood mudpies.
I recalled a smelly concoction of dirt, water, rocks, leaves and dead locusts that my kids once cooked up in the front yard and pretended was Polyjuice Potion. I wondered if they ever drank it.
I hummed that Squeeze song:
I thought about big hair, leg warmers, skinny ties and 1982.
And I waited.
Like most things, I thought. Good things come to those who wait.
I went about my day, and the coffee sludge soaked.
I recalled Gary Paulsen’s novel, “Hatchet,” the story of a boy stranded in the Canadian wilderness:
“Patience, he thought. So much of this was patience – waiting, and thinking and doing things right. So much of all this, so much of all living was patience and thinking.”
“Rivers know this: there is no hurry,” I remembered from A.A. Milne’s “Winnie-the-Pooh.” “We shall get there some day.”
My only sieve is tiny, so the next morning I lined it with paper towels and ladled in the coffee a few spoonfuls at a time. Spoon, press, drip. Spoon, press, drip.
“Why is patience so important?” wrote Paulo Coelho. “Because it makes us pay attention.”
That was from “The Alchemist,” a book I hated when I read it several years ago, when the kids were little and I was exhausted, sleep-deprived, weary. It made me angry, in fact. I didn’t have time to understand or appreciate a “Magical Fable About Following Your Dream.” I had instant oatmeal to make.
But here in the kitchen now, steeped in the zen of cold-pressed coffee, I’m more open to the concept.
Spoon, press, drip. Spoon, press, drip.
It’s summer and the kids are older, 12 and 15. They sleep late and get themselves to swim practice and baby-sitting gigs. Our conversations, like the coffee, are meted out in spoonfuls, potent and rich.
The first batch – surprisingly little for the amount of coffee, water and pressing required – gleamed like liquid chocolate or a pint of Guinness. I set it in the fridge beside the half-and-half and pledged to make more next time, perhaps a whole bucketful.
After all, it just takes a little time.