Few smells are more intoxicating than that of an expertly pulled espresso, but the aroma produced by roasting coffee beans may be better. This weekend I (finally) made it to a coffee class at John Roos's coffee roasting operation. I picked up a few Cuiziners on the way and after a quick turnaround at the Lotus factory, we walked through the door and into a cloud of roasting-coffee faerie-dust. It took a few minutes, but that smell really makes you fly.

John and Brian—who often wears a vest—were waiting for us. The three of us had arrived a little earlier, so we saw the first batch of Rich French Neighbor poor out of the enormous Diedrich roaster. Coffee beans undergo an amazing transformation during roasting. They start as small green beans with a bright earthy smell. During the roast, which takes about 20 minutes for a dark roast like Rich French Neighbor, the beans double in size and bloom with all the complex odors that make coffee wonderful.

About fifteen came to the class. We were all a little quiet at first—blame Sunday morning, or maybe the others had starved themselves of caffeine to prepare, as I had. With every cup of coffee the morning became a little brighter and the group livened up. After the first round of coffee we broke into the food. John made homemade muffins and quiche and we had bagels with salmon and smoked herring. Another cup of coffee, a history of coffee through the ages, another cup, a demonstration of the Aeropress, and just one more little cup, a chat about food distribution, then a taste of someone else's brew...here the whole event seems a little blurry. Not the fog of a night of heavy drinking, but a light airy haze that makes it a little hard to remember how I got home. I do remember that at some point John pulled out the decaf.

I won't describe the coffee hangover that followed.

Christmas Day is here! I've already opened my carefully selected presents and I sit down before a true feast. In front of me is slow-roasted ham, whose gravy will top my hand-crushed potatoes. The green beans are overcooked to nostalgic perfection. Jalapeño cornbread casserole, biscuits, orange jello and moist stuffing are passed around the table. For the second year, I pour myself a glass of red wine and I have chocolate milk on the side for good measure. What an amazing assortment of proteins, fats and carbohydrates I am about to consume. But I consider myself a health-conscious eater—how cruel a punishment is the feast for my intestinal system? Should I be worried?

I reach for my fork to dig in when I hear a pop and feel a slight weight on my right shoulder. I glance down and find that a miniature Megan Fox has alighted there. She is wearing little more than a tiny santa hat and I can see a pair of gnarled horns poking through the white felt. Whoah, I think, this is not normal. I go back to eating and try to pretend that nothing happened. A few minutes later I peak back at my shoulder and there is Megan Fox, looking a little disgruntled. I hear another pop on my left shoulder. I turn to see a fat little man wearing a paper pilgrim hat and a shoddy gray suit.