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I’ve never seen my grandmother drink a single sip of coffee. No pourover, fancy French press, or flavored brew will tempt her away from her cabinet of caffeine-free teas and herbal tisanes. Known for pulling tea bags out of her pocketbook at restaurants, she once even brought bags of her favorite tea across the Atlantic when I took her on a research trip to the tea-steeped English countryside. Meanwhile, my grandfather drinks his coffee black, all day long, and by the bucket. His coffee set-up—a small drip machine—is relegated to one slim corner counter with a canister or two of Folgers tucked in a small cabinet below. Between his minimal coffee gear and the prominent kettle, cozies, and tea strainers, my grandmother’s kitchen is clearly meant for making tea, which is why I’ve always found it strange that she kept an old wood-and-cast-iron, hand-cranked coffee bean grinder on display in the pass-through window.
The grinder has sat there for longer than I’ve been alive. Most of those years, I didn’t realize what it was, just another wood-and-metal antique blending in with the other rustic touches in my grandmother’s rooster-themed kitchen in North Texas. Now, as a food scholar with a specialty in food-related material culture—the study of the power and meaning of everyday objects—I see the same utensils and kitchen tools we touch and use multiple times a day with slightly different eyes.
