Roast Magic 1 - Hamster Wheel
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
And he was awake.
Darkness greeted his eyes, all encompassing except for the rare rays from the shining moonlight. Barely he could see the outline of his abode, but the littlest of what he could saw gave him enough to know where he was; home. After recognition came the the smell, an apartment that had seen to little sun, an oppressive smell of dankness and sweat, among other things.
Tap.
His eyes shot just a little wider, it was that sound again. His gaze wandered and met an assortment of knickknacks scattered about on his field of vision, an organized chaos. He idly promised himself to clean up later, before the thought went away as his eyes settled on the kitchen.
Tap.
He got up, slowly and groggily, found no purchase of the bed he slept in and promptly fell. Dazed, he realized he slept in the couch. Huffing, he resumed his effort, weary joints creaked and popped, muscles ached in an abused manner as if to protest, he wasn't meant to getting up anymore.
But he did.
Encumbered by time, but not yet dead on his feet, he dragged his almost useless self. Feet shuffling awkwardly forward as he walked, letting gravity did half the work, the sea of trinkets and baubles split as he made his way to the kitchen. His knees groaned with each steps, but fueled by habit and the thirst of curiosity, he marched.
Tap.
He has arrived.
The kitchen was due for a cleaning, he thought. It was not dirty, he made sure of it most days, but dust had cloaked almost every surface with age. His decrepit eyes warily took in everything, the blur reminded him that he left his glasses somewhere. Still, he found what made the siren call that had awakened him.
A mug sat on top of the counter, glittering under the onslaught of dust and moonlight. Tap. It called him somehow, and he answered. His vision began to dance as he continued forward, dust parted and bowed in reverence. They welcomed him, he thought grimly, soon he will join them.
But not before found his stool. Not before he sat down and felt relief that jolted from the edge of his toes, all the way to the back of his neck. He breathes out, winter night instantly frosted over the stale air from his lungs. His hand rested on the counter top, cold pierced the wool sweater and the pajamas he wore for the night.
Tired, his vision went away, the blurry sight of his favorite mug gone and replaced with oppressive darkness as his weary eyelids drooped. Still, he had his sense of touch, so his fingers snaked away to find where he saw last of the handle. In but a moment, he had his finger locked on the vessel, and his other palm under.
It was cold, he noted, but so was everything under the blanket of winter. The vessel, the mug, he brought it closer to inspect. He could not see anymore, so he smelled. His nose wheezed as he took in a breath, noting how had lost half of his nose as well. But half a smell is still a smell. In the absence of heat the fragrance had dulled, and what he found, he was comforted in its familiarity.
Coffee.
Tap. He smiled, wrinkly dry lips cracked as his hands brought his mug closer--
He woke up.
Coffee Grounds blinked, once and twice. A breath inhaled and exhaled, and repeated, washing away the last dregs of sleep each frosted breaths. Rolling sideways out of the bed, two pair of hooves found purchase of the wooden floor. He then stretched, neck cracked left and right, then joints popped, each motion sent pleasure down his spine.
"Aah."
He shivered, and lips smacked after. Noting the dessert that was his mouth, he moved. The faint lights of the stars and the moon showed his way to the kitchen, his habit was his guide. Wooden flooring creaked each hoofstep, he swiftly tumbled his way across his small single storey house.
The sink tapped away, the faucet not completely turned earlier before he slept. Dunking his head beneath, he turned on the tap water. Cold water washed his head and cream-colored mane, his forehooves ridding of the crusted corner of his eyes. After a moment, he tilted his head, mouth rinsed as he gargled and swallowed. Satisfied, he pulled back and turned off the water.
Turning around, he drank the sight of his home. Average by the standards of Ponyville, but not too big that it made cleaning hard. A bedroom, with a bed and a small bedside cabinet. A living room with a couple of seats and a table, because he wasn't expecting guests soon. And the biggest kitchen he ever set hooves on that wasn't from a restaurant.
Grounds nodded and set to work. He moved to open the kitchen window, fireflies beneath the stars greeted him. He greeted them back and set his shop sign above the window-hole. Coffee Grounds' Cafe, with the intentionally hiked price below.
He chuckled, well, not everything. What he brewed was pricey, but not his roasted beans.
The beans, right. On the corner of the kitchen, sacks of un-roasted beans sat, waiting their fate. He sold coffee and coffee accessories, that is, roasted coffee beans. The single supplier in this small town of Ponyville, well, besides Rich's. But unlike him, what he sold was always fresh.
And he was fresh out of roasted beans to sell.
Beans, beans, beans.
He walked to the 'fireplace'. In name only, the fireplace was dismantled halfway down and in its place was a giant half-enclosed hamster wheel above the currently dead flames. He threw in the firewood, cheap ones he bought from Big Mac, and lit the fire with a flint. Small sparks flew in before he remembered to add in dried leaves.
He huffed in annoyance, and resumed flinging sparks until a small flame lit on the catalyst. The small fire danced and he sat mesmerized. Shaking his head, he began stoking the fire, as if to poke it and told it to hurry up. Soon enough, the fire was hot enough to burn and spread to the woods.
He didn't own any thermometers, or knew any tools to measure heat in this age, but he didn't need one to find the perfect temperature.
The mark on his flank said its not going to be hot enough, so he added more wood. The fire roared and he briefly looked at his cutie mark in concern, a single coffee bean in a four-pointed star, white upon a dark chocolate fur. The mark didn't answer, except that it felt 'settled' as the heat was enough.
Grabbing a sack of coffee beans, he noted the origin. From Kaffa, a city southern-most from Saddle Arabia. He chewed a bean, tasting the distinct but subtle sweetness of coffee along with its acidity and bitterness, and nodding satisfied. Setting the beans next to the hamster wheel, he dumped the entire sack.
The wheel, while giant in size, was not exactly made for giant hamsters. The wheel was connected to a series of gears and a handle which he would use to spin the whole thing. There was a metal sheet covering the bottom half of the wheel, and this would be where the beans would be heated, while constantly stirred by the wheel.
Someday he'll found out how people roast entire sacks of beans in his previous life, but for now, this will do.
Grabbing the handle with his hooves, he turned the whole thing. Slowly and surely, it picked up speed in tandem with the rapidly heating contraption. The beans danced as it stirred, sounds of gears rumbling as it made rounds, Coffee Grounds sat on his hind legs as his front moved in a rhythmic spin. Periodically, he would leave the wheel to add more wood, keeping the heat constant.
He recalled the bean he tasted earlier. Light, not too dense, most likely an early harvest in the season. He nodded to himself, previous knowledge in coffee roasting mixing with magical instincts told him not to roast too long. The fire may be constant, but it was too unwieldy to properly took measure.
In a perfect machine, he could get all light, medium, and dark roasted beans. And someday he will have it, he swore to himself, to find a more perfect way to evenly roast all his beans at once. Maybe by hot air?, he thought, before shelving it for later.
An uncountable moments later, the fire turned to embers, and the wheel stopped moving. His tired forehooves said it was hours, but he knew it wasn't even one. Resting for a moment, he noticed the aroma wafting around his kitchen-area. Seemingly energized, he grabbed a pan and put in under the wheel. A latch opened, and a whole lot of beans rained.
The hard part over, now was the tedious part. Grabbing the pan with his mouth, deep smell of roasted beans assaulted his nose, and he quickly made way to the long kitchen counter where he poured it over, from end to end. An assortment of beans, some dark, some light, some between, and all needed to be sorted.
A small part of his mind wished for a unicorn, maybe one with a sorting spell.
Shaking his head, he made way to the sink first. He was pretty sure Equestrian biology were stronger than a human's, but it still felt right to wash his hooves before touching his product bare. After drying with a towel, he relaxed, and began sorting.
Coffee roasting is more art than science, and in here, a little bit more magical as well. There were profiles in roasting coffee beans, and every beans is unique. For this batch, what he dubbed 'Kaffan', it has a strong fruity and nutty taste, slightly acidic, and not much bitter. With roasting it, he could dampen certain flavor and enhances others, and with his cutie mark, he knew how.
But he couldn't, he was limited by his machine. The crude wheel roasted his beans unevenly, and he risked overburning them if he went for a more darker roast. There were indicators, first and foremost were the colors. Next where the subtle sound, a crack, like popcorn. The first crack was for light and medium, the second crack was for dark. He pulled them out when he was sure all of them were cracked.
He sighed, sorting all the while. He noted even in a short period of roasting time, already there were a handful dark roasted beans. A ratio began to show, a tenth of dark roasted beans, sixth for medium, and a third for light. He bagged them, small paper bags with a custom-made stickers.
Some he set aside, of course. For personal use.
Morning came as the sun rises on the horizon, the fireflies bid farewell and went away from the premises. As the day shines, the first customer came.
"Hello, welcome to Coffee Ground's Cafe, how may I serve you?"
"Morning, darling." A unicorn greeted back, a rather unusual face for a first customer he thought. It was Rarity, her soft voice were the first thing he noted, her white fur and glossy purple mane the next.
Author's Note
Up next:
Brew Magic 1 - Rarity
