The Arrival

The day finally dawns. The handy-dandy-on-line-courier-tracker declares ‘delivery today between 10 and 2’. Right, stay away from the shower. Proven fact: the minute you get lathered up, the courier you have been expecting for 3 days arrives. An even higher chance if your signature is required.

As the time ticks on, and each minute feels like an hour, I’m finally grabbing the large brown box off the front porch with the enthusiasm of a first time coffee roaster with too many YouTube videos under their belt.

First thing I notice, as I gingerly carry the box inside, is a friggin’ gaping hole in its side. Courier driver has skiddadled, so I'm hoping there’s no major damage - assuming he’d give a damn anyway.

On tenterhooks, I open the precious cargo, give it the once over, and to my relief, see that everything seems ok. Phew.

Well, it really is a wee cracker!

As I take in the machine's beauty, I'm itching to get it plugged in and to start roasting.

That's when I hear the whispered voice of my true love from across the oceans (she’s currently marooned in Aotearoa): ‘Husband, before you get started, read the instructions’. This is one of those complex issues for men, but I'm pleased I do. Read on.

Step 1: I put it through its paces, but no beans yet, says ye olde instruction manual. So I get it cranked up and let it take itself through its paces for roast #1 (sans beans).

Then, after selecting the type of bean and carefully weighing out 250 grams, I have to wait an agonizing 20 minutes for the machine to cool down. That’s a long time in anyone’s world, but for me, agonising! Finally, we are 'in like Flynn’, and ready to get roasting.

Once the temperature gets to 167F, there’s a loud beeping - the signal to send the beans into the rotating roasting chamber.

With the auto setting, I don't have to do much, which is good, as now that it's all there in front of me beeping, lights a-glowing, beans a-browning, it's really quite nerve-wracking - but in the same breath - very cool.

I’m roasting my own coffee.

First batch goes well, nice cinnamony brown beans. Straight into the grinder you say and make that first ‘cup of all cups’. No, best to wait a bit they say, let the gasses out they say. Gases? Still lots to learn.

Righto - I'll let the machine cool and the beans de-gas, so I'm off to the supermarche.

I deliberately take a photo of the coffee aisle, capturing the moment for posterity, as it's the last time I'll be going down there. Unless my efforts taste akin to Tim Hortons. God forbid.

Groceries bagged, I scuttle home for the highly anticipated roast #2.

Right, we are on our way. Notebook duly noting: Date, time, bean type (Colombian Supremo), same quantity of beans: 250g.

Things get off to a good start, green beans yellowing in the drum, turning to a light brown, then things progress well to a nice cinnamonny colour.

Best laid plans of mice and men. It gets to the point where I need to get things stopped and get said beans out. Eject button activated. A few beans get released into the cooling tray, but the rest (I’m talking over 200g here) stay put, getting darker by the second. Try the eject button again. Nothing.

I remember there’s an emergency button at the back. See, instruction manuals are worth reading. By this time the smoke is getting on the heavy side. Those beans need an evac.

I yank on the manual eject button, remembering to use a tea towel ‘cause everything is effing hot. Nothing. I yank again, smoke is billowing out of the machine, and then that dread feeling ‘cause I know what’s coming.

The piercing shriek of the smoke alarm fills every space there is. That ear-shattering pitch, where you can't think straight, and the panic rises. Luckily, I have the roaster positioned on the kitchen bench by the back door, which thankfully is wide open. I'm tempted to yell for the neighbour not to call the fire brigade, things are that bad.

Looking through the machine’s viewing window, I see that the beans are black, and shiny. It's oil out of the beans if we want to get technical. Oil and heat: You know what that leads to.

No idea what to do. I’m quite worried that instead of dark black beans I'm soon going to have bright red flames. So I hit a few buttons on the display. Nothing. If all else fails, hit the off button. Don’t remember reading that in the manual, but sweating, I’m desperate. I collect my thoughts. Magically, something I’ve hit has done the trick.

I stare in disbelief through the window at the level of incineration. Well that’s what I’d call a little overdone. Even the Doc (one of my official tasters I've primed in advance) whom I know is a dark roast kinda guy, is going to find this a challenge.

Finally, the machine cools enough for me to get the front off, then I tilt it up and out slide the blackened innards - a little reluctantly as if they had a hand in this fiasco, and are ashamed to show their face.

Dark, very, very dark, and shiny. Very, very shiny.

So what's a committed roaster going to do now? Exactly, I put the kettle on and I grind them. I gingerly spoon a couple of scoops into the french press.

Let's just say there would be less of a burnt taste if I'd thrown a handful of embers from the fire pit into a pot and boiled it for a week.

I'll let those beans sit for a day or two. Surely they need a good double de-gassing. Who knows? They might just be what the doctor ordered.

First escapees included for dramatic contrast!