Last Tuesday, out of sheer boredom and a questionable amount of espresso, I decided to conduct an experiment. I have a rather pretentious-looking Fiddle Leaf Fig named “Phil” sitting on my kitchen counter. I’ve always felt he was judging my pour-over technique, so I decided to test a hypothesis: Could a plant be trained to handle the brewing process if it just saw it enough times?
I set up a GoPro, positioned a bag of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe strategically near his leaves, and spent 48 hours whispering instructions about bloom times and water temperature while pretending to be a barista.
I thought I was hallucinating when I woke up Wednesday morning.
There was Phil. He hadn’t sprouted limbs, exactly, but he had successfully knocked the Hario V60 into the mug below and—somehow—directed a stray sunbeam through a magnifying glass to heat the water to precisely 202 degrees Fahrenheit. The coffee was blooming.
I was stunned. I sat there, bleary-eyed, watching a plant make a cup of pour-over. It was smooth, floral, and frankly, better than anything I’ve made in months.
But then, the situation turned.
By Thursday, Phil had started “communicating” via Morse code using his leaves against the windowpane. I broke the code down, and he wasn’t asking for fertilizer. He was asking for equity.
“I provide the labor, you provide the water,” his leaves tapped out. “I want 15% of the gross profit from your morning routine, plus a premium spot near the South-facing window.”
I tried to explain that he is a literal shrub. He responded by dropping a single leaf onto my keyboard, right on the “Enter” key, effectively sending a scathing email to my local coffee roaster about the quality of their bean sourcing.
The situation is escalating. I came home today to find he’s somehow ordered a commercial-grade grinder from Amazon using my saved payment info. He’s currently looking at me with what I can only describe as “aggressive botanical intent.”
If I disappear, tell the world the coffee was good. But for the love of all that is caffeinated, do not—I repeat, do not—teach your houseplants how to steam milk. They are natural-born capitalists, and they are coming for your kitchen.
