The story of an old coffee bean grinder
A couple of bags of rich-roasted Hawaiian coffee beans recently led me to re-discover a small family relic, which lay forgotten for years in a back cupboard, until it was needed: a small, cast-metal coffee bean grinder, produced sometime in the 1930s, a grinder, it turns out, once manufactured by my family. I had been looking for a means of grinding up beans we had received as a gift last Christmas, when my father dug up the object, still bearing my grandmother's family name and logo.
But the grinder is different: it’s special to us as a link to our family’s history. And useful: have a listen.
I’ve long felt there were relatively few supermarkets or delis in the capital where you can have your beans ground, and I’m pretty sure the service is not as widespread as in cities in North America. Nor do I know of anyone who buys fresh beans here: the ones we received were from close friends from Canada. I kept wondering when and where I would get around to breaking the vacuum sealed packages and get to grind and try some of these exotic beans and smell their wonderful aroma. Now I can tell our friends – with some relief – that we finally got around to it.
Thanks to this little machine that for decades was gathering dust.
As I get older, the few objects handed down over the decades, not lost in the turmoil of the war, and the dark 1950s, serve as a small reminder of the family history, and this coffee bean grinder is no exception. I am thrilled that it has survived, along with the photographs of the great uncles and aunts who I cannot in all honesty name, except for one or two. I realise that what I know of my predecessors are not details but only broad strokes, and that a future project will be learning who they were and what kind of lives they led in Czechoslovakia’s First Republic. Who knows, it might even make the subject for a good script: a story even worthy of that ancient typewriter.