Wealtha Avenue

Using my childhood street name as the name of the first Strange Bird Coffee blend was perhaps a bit on the nose, but I don’t care. It’s cathartic. A retelling of my history in an attempt to connect my past lived experience to a box of roasted coffee in the present. Delicious. 

Wealtha Avenue was a relatively sleepy, dead end street. My childhood friend lived right on the culdesac where his dad set up a basketball hoop for us. Across the street was a giant undeveloped field that we made forts, rode our BMX bikes and where I had my first kiss. We smoked cigarettes, fought, and played tag. It was simple and perfect. A time before supercomputers in your pockets and your news came from the television, newspaper or your neighbor, not Reels or Reddit threads.

At home, my mom would cook late night dinners while I finished up homework, watched tv or played Nintendo. After my chores of course. In the morning, my mom would brew a full pot of coffee, pretty sure it was Folgers in the red tin. Giant tin of perfectly ground coffee. She would brew the full pot and let it sit all day, sipping the coffee in the morning, afternoon and night, adding her powdered creamer that would coagulate on top as she stirred it with her spoon. She drank that pot of coffee over the next two days, throwing it in the microwave to reheat it. The house always smelled of coffee and if you wanted a cup, my mom always had one ready for you. 

::Lynchian time lapse::

You wake up. You’re living in San Francisco. You have a vague memory of your childhood home on the sleepy east side of Los Angeles. You wonder if it was all a dream. You wash your face and brush your teeth. You go into the kitchen and open a box of Strange Bird Coffee. How did this box of coffee even get into the apartment? You do not recall buying it at the grocery store. Did it just…arrive? Yes. You scoop spoonfuls of the whole bean coffee into your blue speckled ceramic bowl that sits confidently on a small gram scale. You weigh out the perfect dose and throw the beans into your electric burr grinder standing proud on your kitchen counter. You watch the beans spin and disappear as they get mashed into a pulp. You pull out your V60 drip coffee brewer and wet the paper filter before adding the pulverized beans, dump the water from your mug and begin pouring a stream of hot water onto the flat, ground coffee bed. This is your ritual. 

Gone are the days of a two day old Mr. Coffee pot, sitting there waiting to be drunk by mama. Gone are the days wanting so desperately to finish your math homework so you can go ride bikes with your friends in the field; to the Quick; to the dam. Gone are the days of reckless abandon, etc. Now here, bills are to be paid, responsibilities continue to eck and call as you move through your days. How did I get here? Did I put my bike away last night before dinner? Mom would be mad if I left it in the driveway again.

The first sip ignites something in you. The second communicates with your mind and body, waking you up and reminding you: you are awake. The day has started and somehow you are reminded of a time before, something simple and pleasant. A remembering of fond and important moments.The conditions have come together and your body feels electric. Something so vague, yet so familiar leaves you with more questions than answers, but you let go and fall into the delicious bliss of the moment. 

You mouth the words quietly, “Sweet milk chocolate. Roasted peanuts. Rich and viscous.” 

You close your eyes and breathe deeply before taking another sip.