Coffee was first cultivated in Ethiopia, introduced to
Vienna via retreating Turkish armies, and
institutionalized in the US by a mermaid from Seattle.
We describe it with terms like rich, robust, aromatic,
and instant. The smell of the grounds in the can is
comforting. The swirling loops and color changes
caused by adding cream are transfixing.
My first coffee experiments were with my mother’s jar
of instant crystals. As a teenager I drank it at a
coffeehouse in Cleveland Heights. In Boston I had a
tall cup every morning from a chain near my office, in
New York I bought it from a man in a trailer outside
Penn Station, and in France I drank it in smoke filled
cafes. My first cup back in the States this summer was
purchased at a gas station outside Bucyrus. Burning
my tongue with the first sip, then running to the
bathroom 30 minutes after finishing the cup, I love
coffee.
And so, this FlashQuiz asks: What is your
relationship with coffee? How old were you when you
had your first cup? Is it a part of your daily life?
What do you add to it? Where do you drink it?
All responses will be treated with confidentiality.
Click here to
re-read previous FlashQuizes.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Saturday, August 05, 2006
A Tale of Two Barbecues
My first week in Columbus I contacted a friend from college – Chris Hughes. He’s one of those people who requires two names. In school Chris Hughes was quiet but not shy, wore button-down shirts, and smiled with half his mouth and forehead. Today he works at the Columbus AIDS Task Force and has developed the catalog of morbid humor needed to get through a day. He invited me to a cookout one recent Saturday. I said yes, took some beer, and went. I met his partner Jeremy and their two shelter rescued dogs – Lucy and Susie. “Why not Lucy and Ethel?” I asked. “We didn’t want to confuse them,” they replied. I’m a cat person, so it didn’t make much sense to me either.
The cookout was at the home of their friends David and Daniel, so we packed up the beer and some more beer, and headed over. There I met a dozen or so interesting people, including Tim and Lyndsey, who Chris met in 2004 while waiting 2-3 hours in line to vote. Their voting precinct, and its majority Democrat voter registry, only had one Diebold voting machine. Long lines lasted all day. So they made the best of a Slavic situation and chatted each other up, discussed home ownerÂ’s insurance, exchanged phone numbers, and became friends.
As the night wore on and the beer flowed, I grew hungry. I panned the back yard for a grill. I saw one, but it wasn’t heating. There wasn’t a tank of propane, no bag of charcoal, no bowl of marinating chicken breasts, no bag of hot dog buns. What the hell kind of cookout was this? As soon as the question entered my mind someone said “lets order pizza!” I love drinking beer outdoors and I love pizza. It was a great night.
A week later I contacted another friend from college, Sweet Melissa. Sweet Melissa was three years behind me at Western, when we both had long curly hair. She wore heavy wool Himalayan sweaters then. Maybe she still does, but in the current heat wave she was sticking with short sleeved cotton. We met up for coffee, discussed brick buildings, relationships, and trash talked old friends.
That night I discovered that Sweet Melissa and sister Tanya play on the same softball team. Small world. Apparently my sister and I have the same propensity for meeting everyone. And our mother’s propensity for being memorable.
Tickled by the connection, Melissa invited us to a barbeque at her friend Tex’s home. We arrived to find trays of olives and cheeses and roasted peppers waiting for us. Tex poured a bag of charcoal in the grill, doused it with kerosene, and singed the branches on a maple tree. We ate salmon and Vietnamese salad and drank white wine. Tex told us about khat and growing up in Corpus Christi.
Besides reconnecting with old friends, staying with my sister and brother-in-law this summer has been a truly amazing thing. It's great to witness the warmth and health in their home. Being far away, it's easy to forget and worry about family members. But seeing the supporting network of friends that Tanya and Chad have created makes it easy to know that everything outside the reaches of my possibility to control go well. It's a gift.
With half the summer gone, I can already say that it's been the best of times. With more to come.
What is khat ?
Columbus AIDS Task Force
The cookout was at the home of their friends David and Daniel, so we packed up the beer and some more beer, and headed over. There I met a dozen or so interesting people, including Tim and Lyndsey, who Chris met in 2004 while waiting 2-3 hours in line to vote. Their voting precinct, and its majority Democrat voter registry, only had one Diebold voting machine. Long lines lasted all day. So they made the best of a Slavic situation and chatted each other up, discussed home ownerÂ’s insurance, exchanged phone numbers, and became friends.
As the night wore on and the beer flowed, I grew hungry. I panned the back yard for a grill. I saw one, but it wasn’t heating. There wasn’t a tank of propane, no bag of charcoal, no bowl of marinating chicken breasts, no bag of hot dog buns. What the hell kind of cookout was this? As soon as the question entered my mind someone said “lets order pizza!” I love drinking beer outdoors and I love pizza. It was a great night.
A week later I contacted another friend from college, Sweet Melissa. Sweet Melissa was three years behind me at Western, when we both had long curly hair. She wore heavy wool Himalayan sweaters then. Maybe she still does, but in the current heat wave she was sticking with short sleeved cotton. We met up for coffee, discussed brick buildings, relationships, and trash talked old friends.
That night I discovered that Sweet Melissa and sister Tanya play on the same softball team. Small world. Apparently my sister and I have the same propensity for meeting everyone. And our mother’s propensity for being memorable.
Tickled by the connection, Melissa invited us to a barbeque at her friend Tex’s home. We arrived to find trays of olives and cheeses and roasted peppers waiting for us. Tex poured a bag of charcoal in the grill, doused it with kerosene, and singed the branches on a maple tree. We ate salmon and Vietnamese salad and drank white wine. Tex told us about khat and growing up in Corpus Christi.
Besides reconnecting with old friends, staying with my sister and brother-in-law this summer has been a truly amazing thing. It's great to witness the warmth and health in their home. Being far away, it's easy to forget and worry about family members. But seeing the supporting network of friends that Tanya and Chad have created makes it easy to know that everything outside the reaches of my possibility to control go well. It's a gift.
With half the summer gone, I can already say that it's been the best of times. With more to come.
What is khat ?
Columbus AIDS Task Force
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Les Dutrucs - part one
On Easter Lionel invited me for dinner at his parent’s home. I was happy to accept as Douglas was in Germany for work and it had been a long time since I’d had a holiday meal that didn’t involve a Chinese restaurant.
Easter morning I went with Vincent to church. We chose one that used the Latin mass. Why should I be the only one to not understand anything? After church we walked back to Cours Berriat where Lionel and his father were waiting with the car.
The Dutrucs live in Seyssins, a village next to Grenoble, sandwiched between the Drac River and the Vercors range. The new tram line that opened this summer goes there. It’s a community of bedrooms and garages on streets lined with blooming bushes.
At dinner were Lionel’s parents, his brother and sister-in-law, Lionel and Vincent, and me. I brought a banana bread.
Mr. Dutruc handed me a martini shortly after arriving. A martini in France isn’t the dry combination of gin or vodka, an olive or onion, and vermouth in an easily spilled glass that can be seen on M*A*S*H, Sex and the City, or in front of Viv Ladd. The French martini is either red or white and poured from a bottle with a label reminiscent of the London Underground logo. Mr. Dutruc gave me a red martini, which tastes something like Pepsi and something like Heineman’s ice wine. It’s easy to drink.
I’ve found that in some settings alcohol makes my French flow more easily. I speak it as poorly as when sober, but less self-conscious. If the people I’m speaking with also have a drink in hand they seem more at ease with my struggling too. Alcohol makes it easier to be laughed at.
Being the curious foreigner in the house my friend was raised in I decided to ask some questions. Why should I be the only one feeling awkward? “Did you ever break any windows?” I asked Lionel. I hit the nail on the head with my first try.
Lionel told us about a time in high school when his parents were out of town and he and his brother were arguing on the way home from school. (I was on my second martini, so I might have some of the details wrong) When Lionel reached the house, he slammed the door so hard that one of the panes of glass broke. Or maybe someone was locked outside and a fist was involved. Maybe a rock. I can’t remember, but I do recall that Madame Dutruc said, “that’s how the window broke? You told us it was stormy weather.”
Awkward foreigner no longer in the hot seat, I held out my glass and said “yes, I’ll have another.”
Dinner was great. There was probably some lamb with rice and carrots and a salad and a green vegetable. Maybe broccoli. Some excellent bread. Dessert was yogurt with honey and fruit spreads. And the banana bread.
“What are the little black things?” the sister-in-law asked.
“Little bits of cooked banana,” I said. I wanted to say ‘the meal worm exoskeletons’ but it’s hard to be funny in a foreign language. No matter how many martinis.
Easter morning I went with Vincent to church. We chose one that used the Latin mass. Why should I be the only one to not understand anything? After church we walked back to Cours Berriat where Lionel and his father were waiting with the car.
The Dutrucs live in Seyssins, a village next to Grenoble, sandwiched between the Drac River and the Vercors range. The new tram line that opened this summer goes there. It’s a community of bedrooms and garages on streets lined with blooming bushes.
At dinner were Lionel’s parents, his brother and sister-in-law, Lionel and Vincent, and me. I brought a banana bread.
Mr. Dutruc handed me a martini shortly after arriving. A martini in France isn’t the dry combination of gin or vodka, an olive or onion, and vermouth in an easily spilled glass that can be seen on M*A*S*H, Sex and the City, or in front of Viv Ladd. The French martini is either red or white and poured from a bottle with a label reminiscent of the London Underground logo. Mr. Dutruc gave me a red martini, which tastes something like Pepsi and something like Heineman’s ice wine. It’s easy to drink.
I’ve found that in some settings alcohol makes my French flow more easily. I speak it as poorly as when sober, but less self-conscious. If the people I’m speaking with also have a drink in hand they seem more at ease with my struggling too. Alcohol makes it easier to be laughed at.
Being the curious foreigner in the house my friend was raised in I decided to ask some questions. Why should I be the only one feeling awkward? “Did you ever break any windows?” I asked Lionel. I hit the nail on the head with my first try.
Lionel told us about a time in high school when his parents were out of town and he and his brother were arguing on the way home from school. (I was on my second martini, so I might have some of the details wrong) When Lionel reached the house, he slammed the door so hard that one of the panes of glass broke. Or maybe someone was locked outside and a fist was involved. Maybe a rock. I can’t remember, but I do recall that Madame Dutruc said, “that’s how the window broke? You told us it was stormy weather.”
Awkward foreigner no longer in the hot seat, I held out my glass and said “yes, I’ll have another.”
Dinner was great. There was probably some lamb with rice and carrots and a salad and a green vegetable. Maybe broccoli. Some excellent bread. Dessert was yogurt with honey and fruit spreads. And the banana bread.
“What are the little black things?” the sister-in-law asked.
“Little bits of cooked banana,” I said. I wanted to say ‘the meal worm exoskeletons’ but it’s hard to be funny in a foreign language. No matter how many martinis.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
