So simple, so insignificant.
One little bean, which is actually a seed, not a bean.
They come in pairs, covered in juicy ripe red fruit. Separated at harvest, they are collected, cleaned, milled, dried, stored and shipped. Then we roast them, and then infuse them with hot water and mix them with milk, cream, sugar or spice.
A little package of flavours. Which flavours depends on where they came from... the soil and the weather their parent trees were exposed to as they were growing. The people who collected them and processed them: Were they washed and hulled right away, or were they allowed to ferment in the pulp package they grew in? Then they are shipped half way around the world and somebody decides how to roast them. A light or medium roast that will preserve the origin flavours and acid twang? Perhaps just a little darker to add a touch of the bitter sweet roast flavour and smooth out the highs? Finally somebody brings them home, or to their shop and prepares them to be enjoyed. A coarse grind and a slow brew? Perhaps a fine powder and a violent pump driven extraction at high pressure?
So many factors. So far to travel.
Amazing that it happens, and happens to so many beans. And so many people are involved in the journey each bean makes from plantation to cup. We count them in pounds or kilograms, in container loads, in jute sacks, in stale-roasted tins and freez-dried jars, and in carefully folded bags of fresh whole bean goodness.
Nobody counts the beans themselves. How many are plucked, separated and transported? How many are discarded along the way because of an imperfection? How many complete the long journey and make it to my cup? In a lifetime? Millions.
To the beans I will drink today... Thank you.
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