The Ratio Was Always Going to Be Negotiated

July seventeenth. The thing about cold brew is that it requires a level of optimism I am not sure I consistently possess. You make a decision in the morning that won't pay off until the following morning, and the whole premise depends on faith in your future self and your math. I had a recipe. Simone had a different number in mind. These two facts became apparent within approximately four minutes of her arriving at the apartment.

I want to be clear that the recipe was not arbitrary. I had looked it up. I had a measuring cup. There was intention present. Simone stood across the counter from the mason jar and said, in the tone of someone who has already done the calculation, 'that's going to be thin.' I told her the recipe called for this ratio. She told me the recipe was optimistic. We went back and forth for longer than the stakes warranted, which is, I think, how you know the stakes are actually about something else, the coffee was fine, we were both just in a mood to be right about something small on a Friday morning.

The moment the ratio became a negotiation.

We used her ratio. I want to say that I conceded graciously, but really I just ran out of a counter-argument before she did. The jar is sitting in the back of the refrigerator right now in the particular way things sit in the back of the refrigerator when you are hoping for them, and I keep opening the door on a premise and closing it again. I have been cooking more things this summer than I usually do, more patient things, things that take longer than I think I have time for, things I mostly don't photograph. The cold brew is that, I suppose. The standing order meets the twelve-hour plan. Simone held a mug of regular coffee while we waited, which is either a hedge or a metaphor, and I had one too, and we stood at the counter and the morning was just a morning.

Coffee in the meantime, while the cold brew made up its mind.

I'll report back on the ratio. I genuinely don't know yet whether she was right. I suspect she was, which is its own kind of hopefulness, the kind that's slightly irritating to admit.