I Mixed Two Coffees Together

Hello,

I had a Nicaraguan coffee sitting on my counter.

Medium roast. Good bean density. Roasted it myself, so I knew it was developed properly. Everything by the book.

And it was fine. Just fine.

Not bad. Not great. Just... there.

I wanted more acidity. That brightness, that liveliness that makes you sit up and pay attention. But this coffee? It was flat. Muted. Like someone turned the volume down on everything interesting.

So I did what any coffee geek would do. I adjusted everything I could think of.

Changed my water chemistry. Tried different PPM levels. Switched from my standard filter to a faster one, then back to a slower one. Adjusted temperatures. Changed grind sizes. Did multiple pours, then single pours.

Nothing worked.

And I'm sitting there looking at this coffee thinking: this should be better. The farmer grew this. The processing was clean. I roasted it carefully. What am I missing?

But here's the thing I realized. Maybe I wasn't missing anything.

Maybe this coffee just is what it is.

The Permission We Don't Give Ourselves

I used to believe single origins were sacred.

You know the story. Ethiopian, Kenyan, Brazilian, Guatemalan. Each one with its own soil, its own elevation, its own journey from farm to cup.

I'd read about the people harvesting the coffee. I'd think about the roaster trying to bring out the best characteristics. I'd see those tasting notes on the bag and get excited.

Blueberry. Red fruit. Chocolate. Caramel.

And then I'd brew it and... sometimes it just didn't show up.

But I never questioned it. I just assumed I was doing something wrong. Or that my palate wasn't refined enough. Or that I needed better equipment.

Because who am I to mess with a single origin coffee? The farmer grew it. The roaster developed it. The bag tells me what it should taste like.

That's the coffee. That's what it is. Respect it. Brew it right. Don't mess with it.

And for the longest time, that's exactly what I did.

Blending felt like cheating. Like I was disrespecting the origin story. Like I wasn't a real coffee geek if I needed to mix coffees together to make something work.

That's not pure. That's not what we do.

Single origins ruled everything. And they still do, to an extent.

But Something Shifted

I'm staring at this disappointing Nicaraguan coffee. I've tried everything legitimate. Water chemistry, filters, temperatures, grind sizes.

Still flat. Still missing that acidity I wanted.

And I looked over at another bag on my counter. A lighter roast. Ethiopian, I think. Definitely more acidic, almost too bright on its own.

And I thought: fuck it.

I mixed them. Maybe 60-40, maybe 70-30. I don't even remember the exact ratio because I wasn't trying to be scientific about it. I was just trying to make a cup of coffee I actually wanted to drink.

And you know what?

It worked.

Not because I'm smarter than the roaster. Not because I "fixed" anything. But because it's my coffee and my palate and I took ownership of what I was drinking.

That's when it hit me. This isn't about being right or wrong. This isn't about disrespecting single origins or betraying some coffee geek code.

It's about growing up.

What Maturity Actually Looks Like

When you're new to specialty coffee, you follow the rules. You trust the bag notes. You assume the roaster knows best. You respect the single origin story.

And that's good. That's how you learn. That's how you develop your palate and understand what coffee can be.

But maturity is something different.

Maturity is being honest with yourself about what you actually taste, not what you're supposed to taste.

Maturity is admitting when a coffee isn't working for you, even if it's "good" coffee.

Maturity is taking ownership instead of just hoping the next bag will be the one that finally matches the promise.

Because here's what nobody wants to say out loud: single origins lie to you sometimes.

Not intentionally. But those bag notes? They're someone else's experience. The roaster's palate. The cupper's assessment. Not necessarily yours.

You brew it and you're looking for blueberry, but all you taste is generic fruit. Or you're chasing chocolate notes that never show up. Or it's just flat and one-dimensional when you wanted complexity.

And instead of feeling disappointed in the coffee, you feel disappointed in yourself.

What am I doing wrong? Why can't I taste what they're describing? Is my palate broken?

But what if the problem isn't you?

What if that single origin just is what it is, and what it is doesn't match what you want?

The Truth About Single Origins

Single origins are beautiful. I still love them. I still drink them every day.

But they have a limitation that nobody talks about: their personality is set in stone.

You can change temperatures. You can adjust your grind. You can play with water chemistry and brew methods and filters. And yeah, you can shift things a little bit. Bring out more sweetness here, dial back acidity there.

But fundamentally? That coffee is what it is.

If it's acidic, it's acidic. If it's chocolatey, it's chocolatey. If it's one-note, it's one-note.

You can't add characteristics that aren't there. You can't create complexity that doesn't exist in the bean.

And that's fine when the coffee works for you. When what it is matches what you want. When the bag notes actually show up in your cup.

But when it doesn't? You're stuck. You either drink something you don't love, or you waste the bag, or you force yourself through it hoping the next one will be better.

Or... you could blend it.

The Thing We Avoid Talking About

Blending feels like crossing a line.

It feels like admitting defeat. Like saying the coffee wasn't good enough on its own. Like disrespecting all the work that went into growing and processing and roasting that bean.

But here's what I realized: blending isn't about fixing bad coffee. It's about being honest about what you like and taking control of your experience.

That Nicaraguan coffee wasn't bad. It was fine. Just not what I wanted in that moment.

The Ethiopian coffee wasn't bad either. Just too bright on its own for me.

But together? They made something I actually wanted to drink.

The Nicaraguan gave body and balance. The Ethiopian gave that acidity and liveliness. Mixed together, they created complexity that neither one had alone.

I didn't ruin anything. I didn't disrespect anything. I just made coffee I enjoyed instead of coffee I was supposed to enjoy.

And that's when I understood: this is what mature coffee drinking looks like.

Not following someone else's vision. Creating your own.

What You Can Actually Do

If you have a coffee that's too acidic, add something darker. A Brazilian, maybe. Something with sweetness and body to round it out.

If you have a coffee that's too flat, too one-note, add something brighter. An Ethiopian, a Kenyan, something with fruit notes to bring it alive.

If you want more complexity, mix two or three lightly roasted coffees together. See what happens when different origin profiles interact.

You can do a 50-50 split. Or 20-80. Or just a little sprinkle of something to give it an edge.

There's no right answer. There's only what works for your palate.

But here's the thing, and this is important: you need to understand single origins first.

You can't blend effectively until you know what each coffee actually tastes like. What characteristics it brings. What it lacks. How it behaves when you brew it.

That's why the journey through single origins matters. That's why you need those reps, that experience, that palate development.

Because blending isn't about randomly mixing coffees and hoping for the best. It's about understanding flavors and knowing how to shape them into what you want.

It's like being a painter. You need to know your colors before you can mix them into something new.

The Irony Nobody Mentions

Here's the funny part about all this.

Even when you buy a single origin coffee, it's probably already a blend.

Different lots from different parts of the farm. Different days of harvest. Different farmers contributing to the same cooperative.

It's all mixed together at some point. Roasted together. Bagged together. Sold as a single origin.

So this idea that blending is somehow impure or illegitimate? It's already happening before the coffee even gets to you.

The only difference is whether you're intentional about it or not.

Whether you take ownership of your experience or just accept whatever shows up in the bag.

It's Your Coffee

Look, if you love your single origins exactly as they are, that's great. I'm not trying to convert you.

I still love single origins. I drink them all the time. Most days, honestly.

But if you've ever been disappointed by a coffee, if you've ever wished it had more of this or less of that, if you've ever finished a bag thinking "that was fine but not what I hoped for"...

You have options.

You don't have to just accept it. You don't have to waste the bag or force yourself through it.

You can play. You can experiment. You can mix it with something else and see what happens.

Nobody's going to revoke your coffee geek card. Nobody's going to judge you for making coffee you actually want to drink.

This is your coffee. Your palate. Your experience.

And if blending two coffees together makes it better for you, then do it.

Because at the end of the day, coffee is supposed to be enjoyed. Not studied like a museum piece. Not consumed out of obligation to respect the origin story.

Enjoyed.

And if mixing a light and dark roast together, if adding sweetness where there isn't any, if creating complexity that doesn't exist in a single bag... if that's what it takes for you to enjoy your coffee?

Then that's what it takes.

Your Turn

This week, if you have two bags of coffee, try mixing them.

Doesn't have to be fancy. Doesn't have to be precise. Just grab a scoop from each bag and see what happens.

Maybe it's terrible. Maybe it's magic. Maybe it's just... different.

But you'll learn something. About what you like. About how flavors interact. About what's possible when you stop following rules and start trusting yourself.

And if you try it, hit reply and tell me what happened. What coffees did you mix? What ratio? Did it work? Did it not?

I want to hear about your experiments. Your happy accidents. Your "holy shit, this is actually good" moments.

Because we're all just drinking coffee. And sometimes the best cup is the one you create yourself.

Oke