Fizzlepop’s Brew

The perfect cup of coffee is a contest to reach equilibrium. It is a game of balance.

Fizzlepop hangs her kettle over the firepit to boil water. She knows that novices believe a perfect cup begins with the right beans, but she also knows they are wrong. The ideal cup starts with the right water. Water is surprisingly complex, and Fizzlepop carefully chooses to invite the different levels of minerals and other impurities to the balancing act.

They, too, are complex, with each impurity bringing their own unique property and taste. Water that is too soft provides no benefit to taste. Too hard, and the carefully selected beans lose their defining characteristics to the harsher tones of the inorganics. An island cistern, filled with rainwater, cavorting with the minerals of eroded mountain stone and sea breezes that kissed its surface with salt, was the best Fizzlepop had discovered.

~~*~~

"The hippogriffs retreated into the sea, and we haven't spotted any for three days. I have troops continuing to search every house, cellar, and room on this island for the Pearl. But we need to consider that the queen may have taken it with her when she fled."

"Retreated to where? Where did they go?"

"I don't yet know."

"Well, do you know what I know, Tempest?"

"What is that, Your Majesty?"

"I know that if you don't find the Pearl of Transformation, you'll be missing more than just your horn after I'm through with you."

~~*~~

Fizzlepop watches the flames of the firepit tickle the underside of the kettle. She sniffs—mixed in with the spicy trickle of smoke and sharpness of the sand around her, an earthy aroma beckons from a nearby saddlebag.

As important of a component as water is, and Fizzlepop knows her preferred choice, the selection of roasted beans ranks a close second. She knows from countless cups that roasted beans are more than simply that—from Saddle Arabia, Zebrica, or even the steppes of Yakyakistan, each bean is uniquely diverse in their complexity and flavor. The key to unlocking the personality of each bean, Fizzlepop knows, is to use the right water, heated to the right temperature.

The beans she acquired from a small village further to the north, one with no name, possess a rich aroma that warms the nostrils even before being put to the grinder. Fizzlepop briefly, very briefly, smiles at the memory of the little stall with its owner—a cheerless but defiant zebra—muttering a rhyme about the importance of small moments.

~~*~~

"Do you think we'll ever get there?"

"To Celestia's School? Of course we will, Spring. And who knows..."

"Maybe one of us will become a princess one day, too."

"I'm not too sure about that, Glitter."

"Oh? Come on, Fizzy. With a mane like yours, I'll bet you're going to be so popular that you'll be the first of us to meet the Princess."

~~*~~

A burr grinder, its teeth set to a moderately fine setting, is her tool. Pre-ground coffee may be nearly ubiquitous in any well-appointed grocer, but Fizzlepop understands that what makes a bean special breaks down quickly once it is cracked open. She sets her hoof on the grinder's handle and cranks the rotating arm. Teeth bite and gnash against browned, split hulls.

This is her morning routine. Making coffee. Simple in its steps, yet when deconstructed, is a multiplex of interrelated ties; a complex process broken down into manageable pieces when put to the consistent force of a grind. Occasionally, an errant bean resists the rotating teeth and the mechanism abruptly jerks to a halt. Fizzlepop applies more pressure, and the delinquent chunk falls into place. The grinding continues.

The rhythm is essential: a steady pace. Too slow, and the process stutters, wasting time. If it is too fast or there is too much pressure, the output will not be of proper consistency. Fizzlepop narrows her focus, seeking to cordon off mental distractions to remain within the present moment—to remain fixed upon the goal ahead despite the sharp scent of freshly ground coffee drifting up from the grinder, enveloping her. She knows the time is not yet right. There is still more work to do.

~~*~~

"Storm King... Will you still fix my horn?"

"You want me to fix your horn? Is the pearl here? Is it in my staff right now, with its awesome transformational powers? Has it made me stronger than before? Am I turning into a bugbear? Or a cipactli? Or a jackalope?"

"No..."

"Then that is your answer. You do something for me; I do something for you. You do nothing for me; I do nothing for you."

~~*~~

A watched pot never boils. Physically untrue, as many proverbs are, but also true in a relative sense when applied to a difficult notion for all but the most wizened of ponies: patience. The water will boil. A shriek will whistle from the kettle. The actual time this process takes is modulated only by purely natural variances, but perceptions differ wildly.

The water must be heated, and that takes time. What may seem or feel "hot enough" is often an invitation to either a rapidly lukewarm brew or substandard enjoyment. The water must boil thoroughly but not too long; timing is everything. Just as she hears the roiling boil nearing its peak, Fizzlepop ceases her grinding, and tilts the grounds into the kettle.

There is no need to measure the amount—so many tablespoons of coffee for so many ounces of water. The act is not a science anymore; years of diligence have turned it into a perfected art: Fizzlepop instinctually knows what is needed to combine two disparate things into something strong and fulfilling. She stirs the brewing coffee with a carefully selected and shaved stick.

~~*~~

"I think 'bad luck' is superstition. I don't blame curses. Everything bad that's happened to me... has been someone's fault. Sometimes mine."

"I don't get it."

"I lost what I defined myself to be... Then I lost those who stood by me... And now, I'm simply... lost. I feel as though there is almost nothing left of me. Out here, I'll either lose myself completely... or find something new to be."

"... I know a guy. If you're interested. He's even a king."

~~*~~

Fizzlepop watches the mixture within the kettle darken and swirl. She finds it beautiful: a reward emerging over time as the product of pressure and heat is steeped and blended. It is a transformation that, with care, develops surprising complexity and depth, extracting strength and flavor from the unique combinations within each element.

She sets the stirring stick aside and removes the kettle from the heat of the flames. While the grounds within still tumble around, she picks up her cup. It is a simple one—tin with the handle wrapped in thin cordage—and filled with cold water. Carefully, she pours a thin stream of cold water around the edges of the kettle's interior. The grounds immediately settle, shocked into descending to the bottom so as not to interfere with the taste.

Fizzlepop tips the kettle over and pours a full measure into her cup. A puff of breath across the surface of brewed coffee completes the routine and she raises the cup to her lips. The first sip, the culmination of her efforts—a warming sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. She lets the taste, scent, and heat carry her senses away.

Fizzlepop enraptures herself with the satisfaction of her craft, enjoying the fruit of her efforts. A brief return to reality prompts a glance into the cup, resulting in a tinge of regret to now see it only half full. Steam curls upward from its dark surface, flicking in an errant breeze like a tail swatting away biting insects. She closes her eyes, recentering on the present. There still is more to enjoy, and so sips again until she feels a touch of grittiness on her tongue.

~~*~~

"This is your plan, Commander? You'd better get to the punchline soon because this has to be a joke."

"It's a solid plan, Your Majesty. A covert operation has the best chance of success without collateral damage. Say the word, and the Pearl of Transformation will be yours."

"That's your problem, Tempest. You still believe, deep down, that the world can be fair. You want to get the Pearl from the queen but don't want anyone to get hurt. You want to get your horn back, but you think you can do it without getting those shiny little hooves of yours dirty."

"I just..."

"You are not a child anymore! I have no use for children. Success takes strength. It takes desire. The strong take from the weak. That is the true law of the land. Learn it and live by it, and then maybe one day you will succeed and earn back your horn."

~~*~~

"Ugh... more news from Equestria. Can't stand it."

"Makes me mad. They're up there, sparkly streets and fancy clothes. Princesses and princes. It's like the rest of us don't exist."

The voices drift over from the rest of the camp, drawing Fizzlepop back to the world at large.

"They'll find out soon."

"Heh. Yeah."

Fizzlepop opens her eyes, and looks down into her cup again. A sludge of grounds and tepid water oozes at the bottom. Something is always left behind; refuse too bitter or distasteful for anything except the garbage heap.

"You about ready, Boss?"

Fizzlepop grimaces as the familiar, impertinent voice steals away a measure of the warmth spreading through her chest. Upending the cup and kettle over the small cookfire, she holds a stoic face as clumps of wet, black ooze spit and sizzle over the coals. With little more than a glance in his direction, she tosses the cup and kettle to Grubber.

"Clean these, and have the word spread to load the airships and prepare for departure."

Grubber salutes sloppily and lumbers away. Soon, a deep, reverberating horn bellows.

Tempest Shadow stands. "Canterlot awaits."