A kitchen,
a drum roaster,
a Sunday.
It started, as most quiet things do, by accident. A second-hand drum roaster in the corner of a kitchen. A bag of green beans from a friend who'd just come back from Huila. A Sunday afternoon with nothing pressing.
We roasted twelve pounds. Drank some, gave the rest to neighbors. By Wednesday the bags were empty and people were knocking. That became the rhythm — and it has not really changed since.
Six years later we have a small roastery and a slightly larger drum, but the cadence is the same. One day to roast. One day to rest and pack. One day to travel. By Wednesday, it's at your door. Still warm in the right kind of way.