All About the Grind

I have a friend who grinds his own coffee. When he told me that, I was genuinely impressed. It reminded me of a woman I once read about who switched to a hand grinder—not because her electric one broke or because she lived in the mountains where the power went out. She did it to stay true to her minimalist lifestyle. Maybe she lived—as my friend does—in a small town with an antique store on every corner, where going off‑grid is less a necessity than a political statement.

I like the idea of a hand grinder, but I love the reality of my brushed‑steel Breville espresso machine. It offers controlled grinding, precise espresso extraction, and “microfoam milk texturing.” Except for grind size, you won’t find any of that in a hand grinder, not unless you plug it in, which sort of defeats the purpose.

Of course, microfoam milk texturing isn’t a dire necessity. It’s espresso theater. By “texturing,” I think they mean how creative you can get with foam. It’s up to you—and your ability to withstand high‑pitched whirring reminiscent of a dentist’s drill. Or how well your neighbors can.

I’ve run into “grind” in three other ways recently. The first is how my judo instructor characterizes my progress at each workout. As we go down the line at the end of class, bowing to each other and shaking hands, he’ll tell me in an encouraging way that I am “grinding it out.” That tells me he recognizes my effort, sees that it isn’t exactly a walk in the park for me, and acknowledges that any belt promotion will take time.

Fair enough. I didn’t join the school to work my way up the colored‑belt ladder. Nor was I looking for what is often referred to, disparagingly, as a “McDojo.” I want to see progress, and the grind is what progress is made of. But I’ve also noticed the grind in less combative endeavors like tap dancing, which can be demanding. The grind exists everywhere (cf. The Indispensable Ones). Or, as the title of a planned post has it, “Even Oz Had Flying Monkeys.” Now that I’ve said that, I’ll probably skip the post.

Schlepping is another way the grind shows itself. When I lived in the Bronx, I would schlep bags of groceries five blocks to my apartment building and then four flights of stairs up to my apartment. That may not sound like a lot, but when you’re carrying everything from bottles of whiskey and kombucha to bulbous papaya, you end up burning calories. I shopped at an eclectic place.

Now I read that taking the stairs, walking to the store, and parking on the far side of the lot are not only good for you, but they can extend your life. Turns out what our ancestors did as part of their everyday lives to survive is exactly what our bodies need. Lifting, hauling, dragging, digging, chopping, pushing, pulling, and carrying provide the resistance that our muscles and bones thrive on. Without resistance, they atrophy and die. And I don’t think leg day will help.

Lastly, I came across another form of grinding this week—writing. I should say that I came across it in a particular way, since I spend so much time writing that I don’t think about it anymore. Some readers might wish that I did think about it more, but that’s another story. The writing I have in mind is playwrighting, which is distinct enough from other forms as to warrant its own category. This might seem obvious, but it wasn’t to me. It’s not that I conflated poets with novelists and essayists, but I did think the fundamental unit of each of these forms was basic to all.

After workshopping a play with actors and a director and revising ninety pages of script, I can honestly say that, as one of my characters puts it, “it’s more complicated than you think.” Indeed. Playwriting has its own particular grind, and there exists no equivalent of a stainless‑steel espresso machine to make it easier or automatic, at least not yet. Hopefully, AI won’t change that anytime soon with textured foam. Writing—all writing—should be hand‑ground. It’s all about the grind.

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Images: Getty Images, Ashkan Forouzani . For more, click on Amazon top right or go to Robert Brancatelli. Visit other blog readers under “Who You Are.” Comment by clicking on “Leave a Reply” below or the Contact tab above. This post is dedicated to Josephine Frasula Brancatelli (1936-2023), who liked a shot of whiskey in her joe.