Cultivar & Character

I thought this was going to be about Japanese maple cultivars.

The longer I roast coffee, the less certain I am that it is.

It has become a question about craftsmanship.

When I first became interested in Japanese maples, I was captivated by all the variety among cultivars. There are thousands.

Some were delicate.

Some bold.

Some upright.

Some cascading.

Each possessed its own character.

At first, I just admired the variety.

Over time I began to appreciate something more.

If I was going to grow one, I wanted to know what made it itself.

How it naturally grows.

Its habits.

Its strengths.

Its limitations.

Only then could I work with it instead of against it.

Coffee is teaching me the same lesson.

I naturally enjoy coffees with sweetness, body, chocolate, nutty flavors, and creaminess in texture and mouthfeel.

If given the choice, that’s where I naturally gravitate.

Yet some of the most celebrated coffees in the world live at the opposite end of the spectrum.

Elegant.

Bright.

Fruity.

Floral.

Tea-like.

Those coffees always intrigued me.

I wanted to understand what everyone else seemed to find so captivating.

But there were parts of that world I simply couldn’t enter.

Today I finally have the equipment to do those coffees justice.

At least in theory.

Which leaves me with a different question.

Can I?

And should I?

It made me think.

Can I recognize excellence even when it isn’t expressed in the way I naturally prefer?

If something is beautiful to so many people, there must be something there.

Can I learn to see it?

Can I appreciate it for what it is?

Then can I produce a faithful expression of it?

Not because I’m pretending to like it.

Not because I’m abandoning my own preferences.

But because I’ve learned to see something beautiful that I couldn’t see before.

That seems to be what craftsmanship asks of us.

It asks us to look beyond ourselves.

Beyond our own instincts.

Beyond our own taste.

To patiently learn the nature of the thing in front of us.

To ask what it is capable of becoming.

And then to serve that faithfully.

The more I think about it, the less I believe this is about coffee.

Or Japanese maples.

Or bonsai.

A craft has a way of confronting us with ourselves.

It reveals our preferences.

Our assumptions.

Our tendency to make ourselves the measure of everything.

Then, quietly, it asks whether we’re willing to grow.

Not everyone wants to.

There’s nothing wrong with simply enjoying what you enjoy.

But if you want to become a craftsman, I wonder if something else is required.

Perhaps becoming a craftsman isn’t just a matter of acquiring skill.

Perhaps it involves getting outside yourself.

Learning to see beauty you didn’t naturally notice.

Maybe that’s part of the craft too.

Maybe becoming a craftsman isn’t just learning to shape the work.

Maybe it’s allowing the work to shape you.

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The Acer Coffee Journal is where I collect what I'm learning as I build Acer Coffee.

These essays are where I slow down long enough to write. Instagram and Facebook are where the conversation continues.

If this article reminded you of something in your own work—or simply made you look at coffee a little differently—I’d love to hear from you.

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