White, cylindrical drums sit scattered around the roaster, filled to the brim with tiny green beans. I lunge my entire little arm into a drum swirling the beans around like a coffee stirrer. They’re dusty and rough like sandpaper. I turn around and plop down onto a couch of burlap bags full of un-roasted beans. The fibrous bags feel itchy on my skin. I hate feeling itchy. I stand up and scowl, displeased at the discomfort the bags provide.
Guatemala, Kona, Colombia, I read out loud. Dad! They spelled Columbia wrong!
It’s a different country, Carla.
Oh.
Dad walks over, picks up the drum I was playing in only a few minutes ago, and heads toward the choo-choo train. I know it’s a coffee roaster, but it dwarfs my four foot five frame and bears a striking resemblance to an old train. He turns the roaster on and it lets out the loudest rumble of thunder, spinning the mixer at the bottom and lighting flames inside. Tall, metal vents that jut out of the ceiling shake from the force of the roaster; it is so strong I think it might let out a whistle and move right out of the produce terminal. As Dad climbs the step ladder to the left of the roaster, he hoists the drum over his shoulder pouring the green beans into a copper-colored funnel at the top. I can hear the beans making their way into the warm cylinder in the middle of the roaster spinning around and rising in temperature.
A few minutes later, Dad checks the beans through this convenient knob which you twist and pull out to check the bean’s new color.
They’re ready.
He flips open the flap at the bottom of the roaster. Thousands of beans and billows of smoke fall out of the choo-choo train into a circular vat where they are spun to cooler temperatures. I place my hand into the vat, being careful not to get smacked by the spinning arms. Now, the beans are a deep brown like dark chocolate, and they are smooth and oil seeps out.
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