(Despite its strong Utah roots, Harmons actually carries reasonably good coffee-though of course, you won’t actually find many Utahns in that aisle of the grocery store.) He had me grind the beans for precisely ninety seconds, so they would be not too coarse but not too fine. He took me to our local Harmons, showed me what beans he bought to approximate a filter-coffee grind. But I am nothing if not persistent, so after a successful lobbying campaign, he relented. He told me to just buy a cheap French press for my coffee-it’d be faster, he said, and more reliable. I remember that he didn’t really want to teach me how to make the drink. For me, longing for filter coffee and missing my father are one and the same. In my mind, my father wears the scent of filter coffee like a second skin. Instead, I asked him to teach me how to make filter coffee. I feared leaving my family, just as I’m sure he must have, but I didn’t want to tell him that in so many words. In 1988, my father had moved halfway across the world, from the Deep South in India to the Deep South in Alabama. Twenty-one was the same age my father had been when he left home for school, and for once, it felt nice to share a milestone in our lives. I was going away for graduate school, but I knew I was going for good. At twenty-one, I moved from Salt Lake City, where I’d spent my entire life, to Chicago, which couldn’t have felt more foreign.
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