A flat black slab, quarried from the island’s own volcanic rock, worn into a shallow dish by decades of use. The roller sits heavy in both hands. You wet the seed a little, lean forward from the shoulders and push — forward and back, forward and back, until the grain goes from rattle to whisper to silence.
It is not fast. That is the point. A family masala took twenty minutes of somebody’s morning, and everyone in the house could hear it being made.