A Matter of Timing

Stepping back inside from the chill of the coal bunker, I turned my attention to the matter of timing. A concoction left to haphazard estimation... is merely bitter waste. Upon the shelf beside the spice jars sat a compact, timber-framed three-minute sand timer. Reaching across the counter, I eased the instrument down, inspecting the glass bulbs for flaws or dampness. The fine, russet sand rested motionless in the lower chamber. With a slow, deliberate twist of both hands, I inverted the frame and placed it squarely upon the glazed tile. A steady, unbroken filament began its descent. Three minutes of unyielding gravity... precisely the standard required for a disciplined brew.