I’ve been selfish with this coffee

Hey,

We use the word “special” a lot in coffee.

Special origin. Special process. Special score. Special lot number from a special farm in a special region. 

And at some point, the word just… stopped meaning anything.

It became a label. A grade. Something you slap on a bag to justify the price tag. Specialty coffee isn’t really about what’s special anymore. It’s a classification. A system. A way to separate this from that.

Which is fine. Systems are useful.

But when was the last time you actually sat with a coffee and thought, this is special to me? Not special because someone told you it was. Not special because of the processing method or the elevation or the varietal.

Special because of how it made you feel.

I had that moment recently. And it caught me completely off guard.

 I roasted this Colombian Java a few weeks ago. Medium roast, washed process, from Huila. Nothing about it screamed look at me.

It’s not a perfumy geisha that fills the room the second you open the bag. It’s not an Ethiopian with that highly elevated complexity that hits you over the head. It’s not even close to being as sweet as my go-to Brazilians.

It just sat there. Off to the side. Another roast I’d already done. I didn’t think much of it. I mean, I roasted it myself, so how could it really surprise me?

And then I took a sip.

And something was there.

I don’t even know how to describe it exactly. Some kind of red fruit, but I can’t pinpoint which one. A raspberry undertone mixed with chocolate notes. A soft Meyer lemon acidity that’s approachable, not aggressive. Sweet enough to give the acidity character, but not so sweet that it takes over.

And it just kept going. As it cooled, it didn’t fall apart. It transformed. Got more pronounced in some areas, more subtle in others. It bent and shifted depending on how I brewed it, what temperature I used, whether I ran it through a cone or a flat bottom dripper.

No matter what I threw at it, this coffee showed up.

That’s when I knew something was different.

Here’s something I’m a little embarrassed to admit. I’ve been hoarding this bag. 

It’s been resting for about four weeks now. And I’ve been rationing it. One cup a day. Maybe two if I’m feeling generous with myself. The bag was full a couple weeks ago and I’ve barely made a dent because I keep thinking, if I finish this, it’s gone.

My wife has had it once. Maybe twice. That’s it.

This is a personal, selfish type of session. That’s the only way I can describe it. When I brew this coffee, I’m not sharing the experience. I’m sitting with it. Trying to understand it a little more each time. Getting intimate with it.

And every time I think about just finishing the bag and moving on, I stop myself. Because there’s something about knowing it’s there, waiting, that makes the ritual feel sacred.

I still have green beans in the warehouse. I can always roast more. I know that.

But this particular batch, this specific roast at this specific rest period? That’s finite. And I’m treating it that way.

Which got me thinking about the word we started with.

I’ve had coffees that smelled incredible. Room-filling aroma, the kind that makes you stop what you’re doing. This Colombian doesn’t do that. It smells like a coffee. But when you get close, when you get intimate with it, it has these elements of greatness hiding underneath.

I’ve had coffees that were technically flawless. High scores, award-winning farms, perfect processing. And they were fine. Good, even. But I didn’t hoard them. I didn’t ration them. I didn’t sit with them the way I sit with this one.

And I’ve had coffees that punish you for getting the recipe wrong. One degree off, one click too coarse on the grinder, and the whole cup falls apart. This Colombian doesn’t care what I do to it. Cone filter? The acidity amps up in a benign, almost playful way. Flat bottom? The sweetness softens everything. Lower the temperature? More sweetness comes through. Higher temperature? Different character, still interesting.

It doesn’t demand perfection. It just wants to be there for you.

I know that sounds a little crazy. But that’s what special is to me.

Not the loudest coffee. Not the most expensive. Not the one with the most impressive story on the bag.

The one that doesn’t disappoint me. The one that makes me feel alive no matter what I throw at it. The one I look forward to every single morning.

That’s special.

Here’s the thing that bugs me. We talk about “specialty coffee” constantly. We rate it. We grade it. We assign scores and certifications and labels.

But we never really ask ourselves what special actually means to us.

We bitch about coffees. We say this one’s okay, that one’s not special. But we never define it. Not personally. Not in a way that’s actually useful to us.

Is it the smell? The sweetness? Does the aroma match exactly what you taste in the cup? Is it the floral notes? Is it how expensive it was? Is it the farm it came from? 

I don’t know what it is for you. I can’t know that.

I know what it is for me. With this Colombian, in this moment, special means a coffee that makes me feel something. That gives me the opportunity to just sit there, sip it, enjoy it, like nothing else matters. Like the world isn’t asking anything of me and neither is the coffee.

And the cool thing is, this isn’t the only definition of special I’ll ever have. There are other coffees out there that are special to me in completely different ways. That talk to me differently. That I’d explain differently.

That’s the beauty of enjoying decent coffees. Special isn’t one thing. It’s personal. It shifts. It grows as you grow.

You can put two people who love light roast coffee next to each other. Give them the exact same cup. One might think it’s the best thing they’ve had in months. The other might shrug and move on.

Same coffee. Totally different experience. 

And that’s not a problem. That’s the point. 

I’m not going to tell you what should be special to you. I don’t know your preferences, your life, what you’re chasing in a cup. Your definition is yours. All I did here was express what specialty in coffee means to me, right now, with this particular Colombian that won’t leave me alone. 

But I do think we need to start asking ourselves the question. Not what’s special according to the bag or the score or the reviewer. What’s special to you?

What makes you tick with coffee? What’s the cup that does something different than all the others? The one you’d hoard if you could? The one where you take a sip and everything else just falls away?

Because that feeling, whatever it is for you, that’s what this whole thing is about. Not the scores. Not the labels. Not the system.

The feeling.

Hit reply and tell me: what’s your definition of special in coffee? What’s the cup that made you stop and think, yeah, this is it? I want to hear it. Because I guarantee it’s going to be totally different from mine.

And that’s what makes this whole thing beautiful.

Oke