When Naz used his espresso machine, it was musical: clack of portafilter, hiss of steam, gurgle of milk, clink of saucer. When Anita worked her cricket flour into dough, she stared into space, thinking with her hands. That’s what I wanted to achieve. Even Jaina Mitra: when she shuttled samples between her great microbial menagerie and the DNA sequencer, her fingers and feet moved of their own accord. She was elsewhere, gaze clouded, brain churning. She could have done it with her eyes closed. That, of course, was it.
