IN THE KITCHEN, like in life, things rarely click into place — but at least your grinder can.

For a year now, I’ve been making my morning java with a Fellow Ode Brew Grinder, and it’s transformed my routine from drudgery to delight. The Ode was designed with handling in mind, not just performance. Its knobs and levers feel old-school, solid and satisfying. You turn an oversized wheel to set your ideal grind and get true tactile feedback — no digital screens here. A chrome lever, which flicks to release any stuck detritus, has the heft of a Steinway piano key. The magnetic grounds canister is a triumph of design: Move it near its base, and it pops effortlessly into position.

The analog feel is intentional, says Nick Cronan, the industrial designer who developed the Red Dot Design Award-winning Ode and the similarly sleek kettle, the Stagg, for Fellow. When workshopping the look and feel of the two machines, Cronan craved an interaction that was “warm but still digital.” For inspiration, he kept returning to the oversized knobs on ’80s hi-fi systems. Eventually, he said, “Screw it, this is what I want in my kitchen!”

Once a student of the Swiss legend Yves Béhar, Cronan is now the founder of Branch, an industrial design and branding agency. His career has led him everywhere from footwear and headphones to concept cars, superbikes, and now coffee — a personal passion. He found the design industry fascinating, if not a little intimidating. Most tools are devised for pros and superusers “who take pride in knowing more than you,” Cronan says. “I care that the coffee nerds are asking for specific features. My job is to interpret that for the broader audience — taking something complicated and making it interesting, accessible, and fun.” Cronan designed the Ode for the pros, but “without gates or walls up to prevent someone brand new from entering.”

Someone like me. My own journey started in the pandemic doldrums, when I weaned myself off $6 Brooklyn cold brew and entered a self-guided coffee exploration. My palate became more nuanced, and I started buying better beans, so my countertop gear had to level up too. Sending dried-up grocery-store grounds through the old Mr. Coffee was delivering overheated sludge. That’s no surprise: Any coffee pro will tell you that a great pour begins with a premium grind.

I needed a plug-and-play tool with zero learning curve. Something great-looking on a countertop, too, and quiet enough not to wake up my wife or guests in the early morning — at least not until the apartment is filled with notes of chocolate, caramel, and citrus. Cronan’s work delivered.

When traveling, I love bringing home a bag of whole beans. I find the Ode ideal for experimenting with those single-origin coffees, which may require tweaking the standard grind setting for optimal flavor. The design invites you to play, sip, and repeat. “Every interaction makes me happy,” Cronan says — a phrase that sums up his design philosophy. “I want every experience and pain point to be a moment of delight.” (Cronan’s favorite bean to grind is Mother Tongue, a woman-owned, Oakland-based roaster that works to support workers in the countries where the beans are sourced.)

The designer admits he hates quote-unquote “technology”: the planned obsolescence for phones and laptops, which often get “recycled” in a landfill. (One of Cronan’s more striking designs is Airplane Mode, a sculptural object to house your devices when you want to disconnect.) For the coffee grinder, he wanted to build something anyone could repair, and now Fellow’s site is full of replacement parts for DIY swapability. Surely, the Ode will outlast my current kitchen, my home, my corporeal form, and a nuclear apocalypse.

Until then, we grind on.