Intoxicating was its smell. Deep and fragrant, black and sweet, a color rich, dark enough to see myself in its reflection, lazily rubbing at my eyes, entire palms, in upward motion, over my face, across my hair, meeting once again at the back of my neck, then all over again. That coffee was strong. It literally possessed the ability to wake me from my sleep no matter how few hours I might have been in bed.
¡Y no era para más! This wasn’t Nescafé or any of the other instant coffees we were used to. This coffee was roasted over an open flame, ground by hand on the molino, simmered over an open flame, brought to a boil in an old clay pot, toda chamusqueada de abajo from being used so many times, and served with love in even older tin can mugs. It’s one of those memories that’s stuck with me. Literally, stood the test of time.
This Sunday when I was making coffee in a regular boiling cup at my parents house, because their coffee machine is broken and they haven’t bought a new one yet, el chocolate La Abuelita caught my eye.
There I was once again descalzo y todo chorreado, standing at the entrance of Mamatule’s sticks and mud kitchen, waiting for her to wave me in, ¿tienes hambre mijo? ¿quieres una tasita de café? And for just one second it felt real. I wanted to walk inside and sit down, listen to the back and forth between her and my grandfather, my mother telling her she shouldn’t work so hard, my grandfather asking us if we were del otro lado, you know, americanos. Just to sit there one more time.
Then Edgar said: what are you doing? Are you making coffee?
I smiled and put the chocolate into the pot.
This is also my One Shot Wednesday entry for One Stop Poetry this week. Check out more prose and poetry from others too – Click Here.
Thanks for subscribing and reading our blog! We’d love to get to know you better. Join us on Facebook and Twitter.
Love it. Awesome memory.
Your words are beautiful, vibrant and as rich as the café your grandmother made.
Juan, I wasn’t supposed to cry this morning! This was so well written, I feel like it’s my memory too. Now I miss Mamatule and her café.
¡Que bonito! Could almost smell el chocolate. Hmmm… pensándolo bien, I´ll go and make myself one. 🙂
Thank you all for the support! It really means a lot to me, so please, yes, let’s all have a big old cup of café con chocolate together 🙂
Traisy, didn’t mean to make you cry…but as long as they were happy tears, it’s all good. A few tears here and there always do the soul some good!
what a cool memory….great story telling in your prose…
Beautiful story, hermano! You paint a vivid picture. I feel like I’m right there with you!
Beautiful and as rich as the remembered cafe. Thank you for this delicious memory.
Mmm…coffee. Lovely memory; you bring it to us all quite vibrantly. Thanks for sharing!
I love it. I can smell the coffee and feel the love.