Grab a bag of Dicks.
Roasted per order, in small batches, by a guy whose dad taught him everything except this.
His name was Richard. Nobody called him that.
My dad, Dick, taught me to take things apart and get them back together with no screws left over. To fix it myself instead of paying somebody to fix it wrong. To keep asking “but why does it work that way?” until the other guy finally admitted he didn’t know either.
He did not teach me how to roast coffee. That one I had to figure out on my own, which was very much the point.
We don’t roast to fill a warehouse.
Your beans hit the drum after you order, in small batches, and go out the door while they’re still off-gassing. No pallets, no distribution center, no six-month-old coffee wearing a fresh label.
If it’s been sitting on a shelf, it isn’t ours.