….thick in the bottom / tell again how years will gather / in small white cups, / how luck lives in a spot of grounds. / …The coffee was the center of the flower. / Like clothes on a line saying / You will live long enough to wear me, / a motion of faith. / There is this, / and there is more.

– Naomi Shihab Nye, “Arabic Coffee” in 19 Varieties of Gazelle

I read Naomi’s poem more than 15 years ago, at a time when I was firmly grounded in America as my home, yet longing for the rituals “back home” – a continent away, places I visited once a year that rooted me in family rituals, the small moments that are commonplace when I’m there, yet seem so out of place when I’m here. 

Here.  Now.  I wake up looking forward to my cup of coffee. My daily routine of scooping 2 tablespoons of La Colombe coffee plus 1 tablespoon of qahweh, Arabic coffee – the cardamom infused, finely ground Arabica beans I bring from each trip back home.  I fill the kettle with water, the beep signals it’s reached 200 degrees, I pour the boiled water into the French press, stir the coffee and wait 4 minutes before plunging. I heat the zero-calorie lactose-free milk in the frother to 140 degrees, timing it so it’s just ready when I plunge the coffee. The foamed milk creates a delicate texture gradually blending with the coffee as I take each sip and occasionally stir with a spoon. As I savor the flavor and the steam rising from the orange mug that my hands are wrapped around, I’ve made a habit of pacing while the caffeine works its way through my body.  I walk in the garden, check on the plants, observe any changes from the day before.  During the colder weather, I walk back and forth between the kitchen and the front porch. I pause facing east and soak up the early morning sun – willing for the morning blue light rays to enter my eyes, to set my circadian rhythm and offer me a better night’s sleep later. 

There. Enduring memories.  Summer times in Souk El Gharb and the morning rituals.  Women gathering, each holding a finjan, the small espresso size cups, taking tiny sips of the bitter qahweh with its foamy top, heavenly scented with cardamom, till that last sip, then turning the finjan over.  Inevitably one wise, gregarious woman initiates a reading of the patterns from the remaining coffee grounds — a divergent path, some faded speckles, all the nuances she can visualize in that finjan bottom have meaning and symbolize something to speculate and chat about. A joyful banter fills the room. Years later, a different tempo permeates the serene afternoons when I join my parents in their Beirut flat overlooking the sea.  Seated in their rocking chairs alongside the window, they face each other as they sip from their finjan, sometimes in silence, other times chatting about the latest politics.  I sit with them, taking in the view framed by their silhouettes, inhaling the qahweh aroma, yet not drinking with them as I still find it too bitter to enjoy.

Here. Remembering and wondering how I managed to get through graduate school and the all-nighters at the studio without coffee.  An assortment of teas — black, earl grey, mint — was what I liked, without sugar or milk.  Until I started my first job, where a pot of coffee was freshly brewed each morning.  To join in the office camaraderie, one day I decided to try it.  With a teaspoon of sugar and bit of milk, I found it palatable, and soon I was hooked.  However, with each cup of coffee, I had a lingering feeling of guilt for the added calories compared to the plain tea that I still liked.

There.  Recalling my grandmother and how each morning she heated milk in a canister over the stovetop and added one teaspoon of qahweh and one teaspoon of sugar.  She made it for herself and for the grandkids, pouring it for us into tall glasses.  Caffeinating the children didn’t matter, it was her special treat and way of looking after us.

Here. Now.  As I make my blended coffee alone each morning, I often think of him, wondering how is he having his coffee, where is he sitting at this moment… those thoughts will recede as the years go by I tell myself, though I have a feeling his memory will always infuse my morning ritual. This blended coffee is something I concocted ten years ago after one of our trips back home.  We both immediately loved it and could not have our coffee any other way since.  I experimented with different mixtures till we settled on the one we both liked.  He was obsessed with the cardamom flavor, and would carry tiny packets of it in his pocket so it was readily at hand to add to his espresso while traveling – grasping for that allusion of qahweh.  His coffee habit had changed from drinking hot milk with a couple tablespoons of qahweh and lots of sugar, to no milk and plain coffee once he realized the amount of sugar in milk.  Turbinado, then Splenda, then Stevia became his sugar substitutes, changing as he researched the makeup of each. Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica was his favorite for a while and he would go to great lengths to acquire it, till I made the blended concoction in the French press and he was hooked.

Here.  I think of how our taste buds change, often marked by some milestone that pushes us to try something new, and then that becomes familiar, and soon it’s a tradition that we hold on to.  I think of how our childhood memories shape us, especially around food and smell, the nostalgia we feel and the associations we hold onto.  I think of how our priorities shift at different phases of our lives; sometimes in sync with one another, often times not.  I wish I had taken the time to sit with him in the garden and savor, together, the morning ritual filled with “back home” nostalgia.