This is Brewed Rituals, a series about the quiet, eerie beauty of coffee-fueled moments. Not just the drink, but the experience—those stolen pockets of time where the world fades, and all that's left is the scent of dark roast, the bite of the air, and the thoughts that only surface when you're alone with both.

Today, the ritual unfolds in the frozen dawn. A silent world, paw prints in the snow, and a cup of coffee that tastes like something primal, something real.

Time: 06:30 AM

The first sip is a spell. The steam rises, twisting into the cold morning air, vanishing like a ghost before it ever truly forms. Out here, in the hush of winter's grip, coffee is more than just warmth—it's an anchor, a ritual, a moment suspended in time.

I like the winter. In fact, I really fucking like the winter.

This thought settles over me as I sit on my deck, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in the frozen dawn. It's 15 degrees. I have some time to kill this morning. I've just let my dogs out for their morning relief, and this time I've decide to lace up my boots, toss on my heaviest flannel, and take in the winter.

Wednesday, our black and white English Bulldog, finishes her business. She fucking hates the cold, and I know what's coming next. She bolts toward the door at a speed that would catch most people off guard—bulldogs can sprint. Stopping, though? That's another story. I have two choices: open the door, or let her smash through it like a battering ram. I quickly open the door where she retreats to the nearest heating vent. She'll snore there, loudly, for the next hour.

Gremlin, our shepherd mix, has other priorities. She circles the yard like she's patrolling a fortress, a two-acre stretch that she runs, but her speed makes the distance seem small. She's got a job to do. The perimeter must be checked. Once satisfied the world isn't burning, she trots up with a ball in her mouth—not requesting play, but demanding it.

I throw. I sip. And I breathe.

There's a calm settling over me, one I don't indulge often enough. The frozen air stings my lungs, sharp and clean, almost like it's crystallizing in my chest. It carries no scent, no weight—just clarity. The contrast of the snow-covered field against the black, skeletal trees looks like something out of a Tim Burton film. They stretch skyward like clawed fingers, frozen mid-reach. My boots crunch against the packed snow, leaving prints among a scatter of paw tracks. Layers of movement recorded in the snow. As I look at the tracks I feel like I can see through time. I find myself wondering what passed through here in the night. What creatures moved unseen, surviving against odds that would break most people?

I think about how normal folk probably look at this landscape and think of the holidays. Family. Fireplaces. Some Hallmark vision of winter wrapped in nostalgia. Not me.

I think about the brutal indifference of nature. About the animals whose survival depends on instinct and endurance. About dogs left outside in this cold, suffering for no reason beyond human neglect. The thoughts come unbidden, and I don't push them away. I tell myself I help when I can, knowing I could and should do more.

I lift my coffee mug to my nose, letting the steam linger beneath my face before I take another sip. The cold amplifies the aroma, making it feel even richer. This is a new roast we're testing, still in the process of finding the perfect ones for Spooky Grounds.

Yesterday, I tried something light and delicate. Today's roast? A whole different beast. Deep, dark, and unapologetically bold. The kind of coffee that jolts you awake not with caffeine, but with sheer presence.

I check my phone—20 minutes before the day starts calling me elsewhere. I should do this more often. Not just drink coffee, but experience it. The ritual, the moment, the immersion in something simple yet profound.

I slip my earbuds under my hat and press play on an audiobook. As a story unfolds, I allow myself to become immersed into the winter landscape, folding me deeper into this quiet, frozen world.