Yum.

There was a time in my life when a cup of coffee was just something I drank to get the day started. Or to keep it going.

When I was in the Marine Corps, I remember sitting in a small van jammed with radio equipment, listening to static, drinking cup after cup to make it through the night.

Or later, when my kids were newborns and sleep was constantly disrupted by cries for a bottle or a clean diaper. The only way to get through the endless series of conference calls the next day was coffee.

Then one day, my ex-wife and I bought a small, inexpensive espresso machine. I could never have imagined where that would lead.

Only a couple of years later, we found ourselves own

ing a coffee roasting business. Now, nearly a quarter century later, the coffee business is no longer a part of my life, but it left behind a passion, maybe bordering on obsession, for the beverage.

My morning routine these days is very predictable. Most mornings my alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m. Not because I need to be anywhere. I am retired. But the day has to start sometime. I choose 7:00.

I walk downstairs to the kitchen, chased by my incredibly food-motivated dog, Skye. I pick up her bowls from the mudroom and carry them into the kitchen.

I flip on the switch to the espresso machine. I've upgraded a few times over the years.

I wash and refill Skye's food bowl with 3/4 cup of dog food, carry it and the water back to the mudroom, and then walk into my office. I meditate for 30 minutes. I set a timer that not only tracks the time but keeps count of my streak. As of this writing, 705 days. I am still frustrated by that day I missed nearly two years ago.

Then I return to the kitchen and check the espresso machine. The brew boiler is at 94 degrees centigrade. If it's too low, you can get a sour shot. Too hot and it's bitter. I've been experimenting with 94, 95, and 96.

The steam boiler is at 126 degrees centigrade. I keep tweaking that between 124 and 126. I read somewhere it makes a difference in how the milk steams. Although these days I am using oat milk, so now I am realizing I need to research that. Don't get me started on whether that's even milk. I don't think I have ever heard of an oat plant lactating.

Brewing espresso is simply a matter of balancing four primary variables: grind size, brew time, water temperature, and pressure. For me, I have found that using a 2:1 ratio in 29 seconds yields a pretty good result. I start with 18 grams of ground coffee, and I look to produce 36 grams of brewed coffee in 29 seconds.

To accomplish that, I need to grind the coffee fine enough so the water doesn't rush through the coffee puck too fast, leaving a thin, watery taste. But it can't be so fine that the water forces its way through the coffee by creating channels, resulting in an uneven extraction.

Have I mentioned I haven't yet had my coffee?

When I bought my current espresso machine, I paid a small premium to add a pressure adjustment valve at the top of the brew head that allows me to change the water pressure as I pull the shot. After a little experimentation, I realized I didn't pay enough attention in my differential equations class in college. So it remains unused.

My coffee grinder is set at 7.2 seconds, and that will get me somewhere around 18 grams of coffee, depending on the humidity, how long ago the coffee was roasted, and probably several other variables that I now attribute to luck.

But now I can smell ground coffee!

The machine temperature is perfect. I've measured out exactly 18.0 grams of coffee at a grind size that, yesterday, produced a good result. Hopefully today's relative humidity hasn't changed too much, and the age of the beans is still in the right range.

I carefully tap the side of the portafilter, settling the grounds, then use my spring-loaded tamper to place precisely 30 pounds of pressure on the ground coffee.

Ready.

I place the portafilter on the group head, set the scale underneath, and place the cup on the scale. Then I lift the brew lever.

I watch the scale.

1g. 3g.

Then it goes faster.

14g. 24g.

Wait. It's moving too fast.

The scale flashes past 34g. I slam the lever down, and it stops at 38 grams.

Too much!

I look at the timer on the espresso machine.

22 seconds.

Too fast.

I know the shot is underextracted and will probably taste thin, maybe sour or acidic.

I shake my head, but now I am almost a third of a way to a cappuccino.

Some days I miss that cheap espresso machine with two buttons.

On/Off and Brew.

Some days I yearn for a simpler life. It's one of the things I enjoy about backpacking. The coffee is nowhere near as good, but it's so much easier to make. Hot water and a packet of instant. I don't measure anything. Knowing me, I probably would, but when everything you carry has to go on your back, you think about things like that.

I know some people who are committed to ultralight backpacking and will spend the money for a pack that weighs only a couple of pounds. I am not one of them. My pack weighs 4 pounds 8 ounces, but it's comfortable.

Of course, I have cut back in a few places. My camp stove weighs only 7 ounces. I found an awesome water filter that weighs 2.5 ounces. And you know what they say about hiking shoes. One pound on your feet is like ten pounds on your back.

I found this great pair of Italian-made hiking shoes.

Okay. I have a detailed list of everything I carry when I am on the trail, down to the weight of my toothbrush.

In grams.

Every Sunday I weigh myself and take my blood pressure. I could lose a few pounds, but today I am the same weight I was 14 years ago. And my blood pressure is, and always has been, normal.

A fitness app I use has me give both my happiness and energy levels a score every week. I pretty consistently give myself a smiley face for both.

I can't help but wonder: Why am I so attracted to measuring things when so much of what matters in life can never be measured?

Even as I write that, my mind screams out: You measure everything in the brewing process because it produces a better product. You measure the weight you carry because it makes your pack lighter.

All true.

But beneath all of that, there is a sense that there is a right number for everything, and I am somehow more in tune with the number than the result.

I see 36.0 grams and 29 seconds on a shot of coffee and my mind says, That's going to taste great. And it does. But the truth is, 38 grams and 35 seconds sometimes tastes pretty good as well.

And a backpack that is 2 or 3 pounds heavier sometimes doesn't matter when you are standing atop the Continental Divide, watching the world spread out in every direction.

Of course, data can offer insight into an experience, but I know I can get lost in the insight and miss the experience. As I think back over just the last week or so, there were a number of times I carefully went through the detailed process of pulling a shot, then sat and drank my cappuccino mindlessly while I scanned my email, listened to the news, or simply let my thoughts wander elsewhere. All without so much as noticing the taste of the beverage I had worked so hard to prepare.

And yet there is something pleasurable in the process itself. Maybe even more pleasurable than the final product.

Which creates an odd contradiction.

All that measuring can distract me from the experience, but it can also draw me more deeply into it. Dialing in the grind, watching the extraction, adjusting the temperature, trying to hit 36 grams in 29 seconds. None of that prevents me from experiencing coffee. In some ways, it makes me pay extraordinary attention to it.

At least until I take the first sip.

Maybe the distinction is whether the measurement serves the experience or becomes the experience. Making the espresso or drinking it. Loading the backpack or listening to my boots on the trail.

And if knowing that I've somehow made it to 705 consecutive days of meditation gets me to sit for yet another day, that's great.

As long as, once I sit, my attention is on being present, not getting to 706.