Childhood

For reasons unknown to me, my parents only brew pots of coffee everyday in the winter. During any other time of the year they use the Keurig. I obviously prefer a pot to a k-cup so when winter break rolls around it's a treat for me to come home to pot of Starbucks Christmas Blend. And if anyone says to me "K-cup is just a smaller brewed pot!" I will probably throw my foaming machine at their face. Coffee blasphemy is not permitted in my house... Unless it comes from one of parents... which it usually does.
Christmas time at my house feels like Santa's Workshop.  My mom is Santa, my dad is Rudolph and I'm the Elf that occasionally contributes to the festivities but mostly stays up 'til 2:00 a.m. catching up on Once Upon A Time. And between episodes I've noticed Christmas is pretty much the closest you get to being a kid again. (Christmas and Disney cartoons.)The closer it gets to the 25th the easier it is to reminisce on your childhood innocence. And sometimes you can almost grasp it again... But then a notification for your Instagram picture pops up and the moment is gone.
The other day I was thinking about when I would get scared at night and go sleep with my parents. As a child there were many occurrences of me sleepwalking, sleeping screaming, sleeping throwing stuffed animals and maybe sleep kung-fu. It's amazing that my parents let me sleep with them as long as they did, I would often whack, kick and almost push them off the bed in my sleep. Eventually they did put my on the floor when I had bad dreams. And then I got too old to be sleeping with my parents. I felt embarrassed waking them up to confession that I was afraid of my own room, afraid of the shadows and the noises and the dreams. I remember climbing out of bed as quiet as a thief... sneaking down the hall with my pillow and blanket in tow. I would curl up on the floor at the end of their bed and wake up when my mom would step on me on her way to the bathroom. Startled at the site of a small person on her floor, but understanding of my fears she would let me stay there.
You know, there are many ways to lose your innocence, physical, emotional, mental, and it's a sad thing. It is an inevitable tragedy.
But there are also victories we have as kids, and I don't think we should forget those.
When I was eight I watched a movie with my family that my parents knew would scare me. They were reluctant to let me watch it with them but I convinced them that I would be okay. That night images haunted me. I was scared. I wanted to go crawl to foot of their bed where it was safe. But something happened that night that I think changed me forever.
I stayed in my bed.
I stayed and eventually fell asleep.
For the first time, I chose to face my fear. And I found something out that night: I liked being brave. Growing up my small group of friends saw me as the brave one. I would go in the dark rooms first. I would investigate the ghostlike sounds during sleepovers. I would not go to my parents when I had a bad dream but rather comfort myself back to sleep. And it started that night.
It was an important time in my development.
We all have those. I think it's helpful to look back and figure what formed you in to who are. I learned what bravery was because I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn't a scared little kid. And the truth is, after that night I did sleep in my parents room when I watched Batman Begins for the first time because ten-year-old me could not handle the Scarecrow on my own. But the point wasn't that I was impossible to scare, the point was that somewhere in me I had the ability to brave.
So during this Christmas time as you remember being kid, think about the most prominent memories you have and see what they have to say about your character. When did you learn how to be brave or loyal or honest or kind?
I would say food for thought but we both know this is more of a coffee thing.
Coffee for thought.

Taking a step back

I don't have a lot of inspiration right now. Not just for the blog but also for writing and reading. I think it's the words. I've been having problems with words lately. It has come to my attention that I don't give people the words they need. And I don't give myself the words I need. I'm not soaking in enough helpful words, not brewing enough deep ones inside myself. I don't have writers' block, I just have writers' unmotivated laziness. During recent travels I came to the horrible realization that I was not inspiring people, especially the ones I love the most. How can I write beautiful stories when my own story is one about a girl who has turned so inward that she forgets to tell people that there existence means something to her? Where is the beauty in that? How dare I delve into the hearts and souls of my characters when I shrink back at any attempt to delve into my own thoughts and feelings? 

  I read in a book about writing that if you wait for inspiration before you write than you will spend a lot of time waiting. I've heard from many writers that writing is about writing so just sit your butt down and write. I agree with this to a degree. If a person wants to be a serious writer then they need to be disciplined, just like if you want to be a basketball player you have to work out and play when you are tired, if you want to be a writer you have to exercise your craft and work even when it's dragging. 

  But there's more to it than that. You have to deal with yourself first. Sometimes we have to fight our personal monsters before we can thrive at what we love. I don't know what you like to do or what you want to be or what is holding you back from being the best at it. But I know that I've been learning how to be a better friend and better daughter and a better person and through all that I think I am learning how to be a better writer. I've been taking a break because I haven't had inspirations for the particular stories I'm working on right now. But they need me. They need a chance to be finished and read and published. The boy needs to fight his demons and the girls need to have time to heal. 

  I need to take care of myself and take care of them and I need to write. Starting with this blog. 

  So if you made it through this rambling than     1) Thank you for bearing with me and 2) Maybe you need a break from what you love or what are good at and just ask yourself how you are doing, what you are doing good at in life and what you need to work on, go call someone you love and tell them how much they mean to you, get a cup of coffee and stare at it for a little while and maybe, just maybe, you'll learn something..

Facing Fears

 When I was a kid I was afraid of hights. Anytime I got above fifteen feet I felt paralyzed. It was a very annoying fear to have because I loved climbing and I loved adventure. And everyone knows you can't have an adventure with being high up at some point. I remember going to a  climbing wall, I got almost all the way up without complication. But when I reached the top I had to ring the bell. The bell was two feet above me at an angle. My knees started shaking uncontrollably. I was frozen with fear. Shaking and terrified.
  I don't remember when I decided that it was unexceptable, but at some point I had had enough. I started climbing high trees, going on roofs and riding tall roller coasters. Whenever I felt afraid of a height I would force myself up higher.
I'm not afraid if heights anymore. I don't know when it exactly happened but after facing the fear for years I no longer had it.
  Until about two years ago I had never ridden on an elevator by myself. I wasn't afraid of elevators when I was with people but the thought of doing by myself sent waves of claustrophobia through me. I felt insecure about this fear because a sixteen year old girl should be able to get on an elevator alone. Especially one who doesn't freak out about things very often. So I finally did it. I just got on and went down a floor.
  It's all about mentally, I think. I can ride elevators  by myself now and climb things and get on roller coasters and it's not scary anymore. And my thought now is that if I'm so afraid to share things I have written with people then that is just another irrational fear that is holding me back. It's really nice not to have to wait for someone to go on an elevator with me. Maybe it will be nice to put some of my words out there. Maybe after a while it will even be fun.
 So this is an exert from the second chapter of something I've been working on since Febuaryish. It's not much, but it's a start. And if it sucks at least I can say that I conquered a fear. I'd rather be a brave fool than a cowardly one, I suppose.

Chapter 2: Leah

       It's pitch black and silent. 

I creep through the woods, careful not to make a sound. In the distance I see a light. A lantern. I'm almost to the edge of the woods. It's lighter out here where the trees don't block out the moon as much. I can see the faint outline of at least a hundred tents. And one light. I make sure to study every inch so that I will have an acceptable amount to report. I turn to make my way back.

Snap.

I freeze. 

I feel a presence behind me. 

Options race through my head: 1.Drop-kick. 

I wish.

2. Run.

Better.

3. Play innocent.

My best bet.

I take off, heading in the direction farthest away from our camp. My pulse screams in my ears as I hear heavy steps chasing me. I veer suddenly and pretend to trip over a branch. I gasp dramatically. A bright light shines in my eyes. I cower and struggle backwards until my back hits a tree. 

Perfect. 

"Are you from our camp?" Male voice. Youngish, probably my age. 

I force my eyes to widen and shake my head.

He reaches out his hand to me. I flinch at the movement and timidly put mine in his. My instinct tells me to run but I won't be able to outrun him and leading him to our camp is out of the question. So I stay and let him help me up. He lowers the flashlight so it's between us. 

Now I'm really glad I didn't try to outrun him because he is tall and very fit. His skin is dark and his hair is darker.

"What's your name?"

I bite the edge up my lip and force my eyes to water. "Ally." My mothers name. 

"Are you alone?"

Showtime. The tears spill over and I nod my head. "Th-they're all gone," My voice is shaking almost uncontrollably. "I stayed in my house alone but p-people came and…" I put my face in my hands. "I've been by a creek a mile from here s-since."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and I flinch, this time not on purpose. At my reaction he pulls his hand back and speaks softly as if talking to a small child. "Come to our camp. I'll introduce you to Hero, he's been leading us so far." 

Hero? 

Ok, time to go.

"I-I can't…" I back up a little. I need an escape route.  

"You won't survive on your own."

An idea pops into my head. "Were you the ones who did this?" 

The question takes him aback, his demeanor changes from gentle to defensive in less than a second. "What do you mean?" He says.

"Did you kill everyone?" I take another step back, waiting for the right moment.

"We…no. We.." He straightens his shoulders and clears his throat. "The world needed to be cleansed." But even as he says it is sounds more like reciting and less like believing. 

Still, my dinner threatens to come back up. "I can't," I say, trying not to lose control.

Go time.

I run as hard as I can. Hoping that I remember the way. Hoping I don't face plant. Hoping I remember where the-

Drop off is.

I run right off the drop off. It takes all of me not to yell a swear word. Gottagetupgottagetup. I pull myself up and limp-run a little further until I reach the boulder. Around the boulder is a larger drop-off that leads to a creek. I crawl down and feel around until I find the empty space where the burrow is. I crawl in and try desperately to steady my breathing.

I can hear him. Running. Stoping. Breathing. Searching. 

His footsteps fall into the distance as he keeps looking.

Finding Narnia, inspiration, and a friendly swordfish.

And now, a few places I have come across in recent travels:



1) THE LOFT- Dexter, MO. I was a town that had a Walmart and not much else. After being there a week and a half I felt very claustrophobic. The roads seemed to lead to nowhere. I didn't feel like I could get out. That is when I found Narnia. There are times in life when Narnia needs to be found. Of course I am not talking about the real Narnia, but the concept. A magical place that draws you in a teaches you things. This one was called The Loft. On the outside it is a brick building with fancy doors. On the inside it is like something out of a novel. They sold lotions and candles and jewelry and weird foods and hats and ties and furniture and plates and Christmas ornaments and weird dolls and quill pens and a large assortment of other strange things. Upstairs there were four separate rooms, each decorated to the max with expensive art and comfy couches. And there was a huge wardrobe(see, I told you it was Narnia). One the roof there was a long couch, a grill that was shaped like a bull and made of copper(it looked like a monster from a Percy Jackson book), there we tables with umbrellas, and there was a seven foot tall giraffe(for no apparent reason). Downstairs there was an outside patio with a fountain and chairs and plants and table and a gate. And downstairs inside there was a grand piano and a little coffee set up. The machine they used was probably a couple a thousand dollars and one of the best parts of the whole thing was that the workers had no idea what they were doing.It all felt very innocent and welcoming. The guy making my Café Au Lait was asking my for directions.When I asked the owner why he had this whole incredible set up he said he just wanted a place where people could just come and drink their coffee and enjoy themselves. And he succeed at just that.

                                        

                               

                               

                                                                                                                                                               






2) THE BLUE DOOR COFFEE BAR, Stuart FL. Named Appropriately. It's hard to miss the yellow building with the bright blue door. This little gem inspired me mostly because of the art. When I walked in I saw it almost instantly. It was a huge painting done with oil paints that took my breathe away. This summer I decided I wanted to learn to work with oil paints because I usually use water and acrylic. So when I saw this painting I was reinspired. I must learn how to this.
  And every time I went back to Blue Door I found another little painting or sculpture hidden somewhere in the tiny shop. There was even a little upside-down bird sculpture under the counter where I sat one day. 
  The coffee was lovely. And the tea. I really appreciate when coffee houses have good tea. They did that too. When I can go into a coffee shop and order tea that I know will be unique it just makes me happy. Oh, also they had Lavender syrup to flavor drinks with...I think I will explain why that is important in another post because it's kind of a long story.

3) STUART COFFEE, also Stuart FL. This little place is filled with art and conducive to community. Also, while in town I got two free drinks by using their punch cards. (: Along the walls and shelves there is an assortment of local art. And on certain days artists come and paint in the window. I love how they support local artists. And their coffee was pretty good. I also like how they had a bookshelf with games and novels. And a comfy couch. That was good too.

  I think it is very important in a coffee house to make sure your iced coffee is just as good or pretty close to your hot coffee. Sometimes people get lazy with the iced coffee and that is just a shame. Also, at Stuart Coffee I got a s'more iced coffee... now that was good. I'm always a huge fan of creative drinks.

  My only complaint would be the workers. From their outfits to their attitudes it just all felt too professional and stiff. The drinks and atmosphere were relaxing and very Florida themed, but I just don't like when coffee is over professionalized. I like when people feel at home making coffee and people feel a sense of home in drinking it. I like when workers talk to me about life and coffee. I guess I feel like coffee is a universal language so when I'm treated like a costumer I feel jipped. I suppose I shouldn't be too upset since I am a customer... But I'm not just that. I'm a person. And so are all the other people who come in.
Coffee of all things reminds us that we are human. And coffee houses should be a place where we can come and feel like humans.
  That's all I have for now. More to come soon. But until then remember that the people you come in contact with are actually people. I think sometimes we all forget that.

Things about writing.

 I'm a writer. I write things. I write blogs and essays and poems and song and ramblings. And books.. I write books too. It's fairly common that when I say that I write(especially if I say I write novels) people get curious and want to read something I have written. This does not bother me at all, I like that people are interested in my work and I feel bad that I don't have anything to give them. You see, I've always felt that no one should read my books until I am finished or close to finished. Otherwise they will see a sloppy version of the story. 

  One of the hardest things for me is when some asks THE QUESTION (cue dramatic music)...................... "So, what's your book about?"

I cringe just typing it. You might wonder why this is such a problem for me. You might roll your eyes and tell me that it's not that big of a deal. 

But it is. Oh, it is.

  Here's the thing: Writers are supposed to be eloquent, right? Sure. Awesome. You give me a piece of paper and pen and tell me to write about my book, no problem. But you ask me to explain it to you in conversation and it goes something like this: "Well, um, basically there's this guy and there's a terrorist and he falls in love with his daughter...I mean... he doesn't fall for his own daughter, he falls for the other guy's daughter... and...  it's complicated because, like, he has to stop these bombs..." 

*insert face to palm*

  I wish I could give you two sentences that would spark your interest, make you want me to keep writing, make you want me to finish, and get published, and put me at the same table as J. K. Rowling and Stephan King. (Seriously, where is that table?...I want to hang out there."

But instead of arousing intrigue and wonder I arouse a half-hearted, "Well, I hope that works out for you.." *person awkwardly changes subject*

  The reason why I am writing this post is because I'm thinking about putting an exert from one of my books up here so instead making a fool of myself I can just send people this way. And also for you people who are reading this so you can have something if you curious. Or bored. 

  So yes, I will look over my stuff and try to find something remotely interesting.  

  In other news I got a film Camera from an Antique store and it is amazing. I will posting pictures soon. 

  And in other news other than the other news: I started an Instagram account for my blog (@coffeecountry) so I can post little things, give updates, and mostly just show a lot of cool pictures of coffee shops and coffee mugs and other such coffee things around America. So you should check that out. 

Lastly, I have three coffee houses to talk about and show pictures of that I am pretty excited about, so tune in next week (probably) for that. 

  Peace out.

  (Did I just say 'Peace out'? Sorry... I'm tired, okay?)

Snobbing

  Here's the thing about coffee: It's okay if it's bad... Seriously it's totally fine. It's actually a really comforting thing to drink bad coffee. It just has to be in its place.

  Throughout my travels I run into a lot of crappy coffee. But often I'm okay with it because it's a form of stability for me. When I walk into a hotel I know exactly what the coffee will taste like because it's hotel coffee and hotel coffee always tastes the same. It's not very strong, it has a different consistency than normal coffee, it's simple. And it also gets cold faster that any other coffee... At least I think it does... Now that I'm saying it out loud it seems like maybe that not a scientifically proven fact and I've just believed something that my sub-conscience has tricked me into thinking is truth.

  But I'm pretty sure it's true.

  Unless it's a specialty restaurant, restaurant coffee all has the same general taste and feel as well. It comes in a  simple ceramic mug and it's made in a typical coffee brewer and it makes me feel like an elderly person. Don't ask why, it just does.

  Keurig coffee always has a weird bite to it. And even though it's technically a mini version of the normal brewing process it still has a fake taste.
And there are plenty of other types of coffee that are generic coffees that I drink  and I say all this to explain something to the people who see me drinking coffees like this and say, "I thought you were a coffee snob?" 

  Oh, don't worry, I am.

  I'm very snobby. 

  I can snob the heck out of any coffee. 

Right now I'm drinking a cup of Dunkin' Donuts. It's not good nessescarily but it's still enjoyable, it's not the best but it's still coffee.

  When I was a kid I would go swimming in water that was cold because even though it would have been better if it was warm I loved swimming and cold swimming was way more fun than not swimming. Same principle. 

  The point of all this is to say: I drink all kinds of coffee because I appreciate coffee even if it isn't the best version of itself. 

Where I Come From.

  Over the summer I took a break from blogging because I didn't travel much. I think it's good to take time and appreciate where you are from. My town is small and the entertainment is smaller. There used to be this sweet shop that was owned by a lady who I'm pretty sure was alive when George Washington was president. When I was a kid we would go sit on the spinny stools are get gilled cheese and Italian sodas. When you walked in you felt like were back in the sixties and before we left we would always buy some of her homemade rock candy. A few years ago the owner became too old to run the shop anymore so she sold it. Since then it has gone down hill and is now the same place plus raised prices and minus the kindness and authenticity.
  I don't really go there anymore because it makes me sad.
  The bright side is, two new places have opened in my little Michigan town: Gustavan's(picture below was taken here) and Union Coffee House.
  Gustavan's is a pizza and coffee place that opened late this spring, the man who owns it invented a special pizza oven. In order to advertise this magical oven he opened a little eating place for you to come and taste it at work. He also has a nice little pour-over coffee set up. The pizza is phenomenally thin crusted and it's all vegetarian. At the beginning of the summer I didn't like the coffee but by the end I think he worked the kinks out, using pour-over can be tricky after all. The atmosphere is rustic-modern and as I whole I'd say is a very good place.
  I spent a lot of time at Union Coffee House this summer because it's a quit place that sells fair trade coffee and hippie food. I love just about everything about it. I find the coffee soothing and the environment conducive to productivity and epiphanies.
  During my many hours at Union I realized that you can tell a lot about a place by its water. If a person can't put effort into giving their costumers good water it really annoys me. Above all, water should be a thing we can count on. When people have good water and put creativity into the ways they serve it... Major brownie points in my book(or blog, rather). In Charleston, SC at the Glass Onion they had mint flavoring next to the water so you put it in if you so desired, I liked that. Union always puts things in their water, wether it's sprouts or cucumbers or mint leaves or assorted fruits, I like that two. Also, At Union you drink their water out of mason jars... that's the kind of water I can count on.
  So now I'm back out traveling again, starting in southern MO, and I'm thinking about how poetic my little town is and thinking about how things can really only be as inspiring as you let them be. You have search for them and let them search you.
  Sometimes I look at all the things I've done and all the things I wish I've done and all the things I want to do and it gets me down. How long will it take me to finish my novel? Will I ever my own a coffee house? Will I ever get to New Zealand?
  When you want things you never get they call you a dreamer, when you get the things you want they call you a visionary.
  When I get so caught up in this thinking I remember that coffee inspires me and I love it because is constant and it is firm. When I drink coffee things don't seem as impossible. So I'm going off in search of poetry and coffee houses and books and sunsets and flavorings and paints and trees and oceans and adventures and coffee.
  I hope you will come along with me.

A Mysterious Phone Call

  Have you ever had a time in your life when you are reading like five books at one time and you can't even remember starting half of them? If you haven't just ask one your nerdy, bookworm friends, they can explain it to you. It's the kind of a situation where you want to finish all the books you are currently "reading" but you also just heard about a new book that came out and you just can't resist.
  For me I face a similar situation when it comes to buying a new bag of coffee. Every time I walk down that section of the grocery store it's like I'm Lucy finding Narnia all over again. So many brews and blends! So many flavors and brands! The smell, the feel, the allure, the comfort of a good friend-
  I stand there, mulling over which brew to take home. Which new novel to experience. Nevermind that I have four containers of open coffee in my closet... That's beside the point. The point is that the bags are full of new adventures that I have never tried. And plus, one of my containers is almost gone, and the other three were given to me. So in hindsight I'm really not being too ridiculous. Don't judge. Adventure is calling to me and I must answer.
  Ring!
  "Hello?"
  "Hello, this is adventure. The coffee needs you."
  "I'm on my way."
  So, there I was, glaring in the face of my destiny, torn between two brands. One is a sunshine yellow bag, the other is seductive brown.
  The thing that really reels me in is the descriptions of each brew, a different one printed on each bag in small print below the roast name.
For instance: Bright, bold. Subtle, earthly. Distinctive, mellow.
In the end I went for the sunshine yellow bag, French roast. The description? "Intense, complex"
  Complex. 
  It makes me feel like there are secrets to be found inside each cup. Intense and complex. A fierce brew that fills its consumer with dark poetry and thick, controversial wonderings.
  And I will say, it lives up to it's description.
  Imagine if we were all described in a few, concise words. What would you be? Bright? Earthy? Exuberant? Petite? Hardcore? Complex?
  Regardless of the description, you can't truly understand it until you taste it. Just like any good novel, the back of the cover will give a glimpse of the story, but only enough to make you wonder. Enough to make you want to know what it means and what it is about.
  And more importantly, enough to make you want to be a part of the adventure.
  Ring! Ring!
  You better go now, I think adventure is calling.

Clouds

  I've decided that it's pretty safe to say that  a lot of people just don't truly appreciate coffee. It's taken for granted, used for caffine, unappreciated for it's real taste.
  For instance: foam. When you get a latte or a cappuccino or many other coffee drinks there is supposed to be foam. A layer of frothed milk above your drink. The clouds over the ocean.
  I went out with a friend to coffee the other day and after having received her cinnamon cafe` latte she commented that she doesn't like foam because it's a waste of space. I was, of coarse, taken aback. Does no one else understand the wonder of this weightless frothed treasure? Am I the only one who takes a walk on the clouds as I sip? Does any one else get a thrill of pleasure from the beauty of the dance of coffee and foam swirling around and through each other before twirling into me? Yeah, I probably am.
  Regardless, it's still an injustice.Will you walk on the frothy clouds with me? Or at least try? You might not get all the way to the sky the first time, but if you close you eyes as you drink, it's very possible that you'll be able to see them.

Floor Me

  A couple weeks ago I found a recipe online for Nutella Hot Chocolate. Yes, I am one of the millions who has been infected by the creamy hazelnut goodness that is Nutella. Plus, the recipe was simple which is always good news to me because even though I really love cooking I've had some, um, issues in the kitchen, such as setting off fire alarms and thinking 3/4 a cup of sugar meant 3 or 4 cups of sugar. Nothing too major. 

  But this was easy enough: One cup of milk in a saucepan, two tablespoons of Nutella, stir over medium heat until Nutella is completely melted into the milk. 

So after (thank goodness) successfully making the delightful drink I tried it and liked. But! That is not the end. After about a third of the cup it became much too rich for me and I couldn't handle any more. 

  Ah. Then. Then a lightbulb exploded in my brain. Coffee plus Nutella hot chocolate.

My friends, I've always heard the expression "I was floored" but I never really understood until I had the drink that is two part coffee one part Nutella hot chocolate. I took a drink and ended up actually falling on the ground in something of a strange bliss. 

Perhaps I was already a bit giddy and that just maximized the experience, perhaps if I make it again I won't get the same rush. But in that moment with three close friends watching in wonder as I fell to ground, I was happy. I'm not an expert of happiness or on being floored. And honestly it probably won't do the same for you. I hope it does, though, because it's a memory and an idea to keep tucked away so that someday if I open my coffee shop I can have a drink called "Floor Me" and maybe sometime it will effect someone else the way it did me. 

  After all, it is isn't really about the coffee, it's about the experience.

The "F" Word

  I would like to take a moment to discuss the profanity of the coffee world. I hate to use this kind of language here but, yes, I am talking about....
  Folgers.
  Pardon me while I wash my fingers' mouths with soap... Okay, I'm back.
  Now. Let me lay out this scene for you:
A nice, average person walks into their local grocery store. They pick up the eggs and milk and other          average things. "Oh, and I need some coffee." All is well and good so far. They go to the Coffee and   Tea isle. Now they are bombarded with a choice. Oh, my gosh. Coffeecoffeecoffee. This average person has already had to decide 2% or 1%? Almond? Silk Milk? Organic? Brown eggs? White eggs? Farm fresh?
Too many decisions! Why can't things be easier?
And now, here we are in the coffee section, tons of coffee staring them in face.
At this point there is a mental shutdown.
The brain searches for some familiarity to grasp onto before it completely lets go and swims into the oblivion of indecision.
Then.
A name sticks out to them, reaching it's hand like the Shimmering Angel of Morning Blends. It says to them, "You know me. You see me at your grandparents house, at church gatherings, on TV, in cabinets all across the U.S.A, and in your heart. You know that I am always here to bring caffeine and love."
The person falls for the beauty of the red container and buys the Angel.
But the angel is not really an angel. It's the bane of sophisticated blends, it's the demon that haunts coffee-lovers, making us shudder in our sleep. It is Folgers.

 
I feel it is my duty to raise awareness for this common and horrifying problem sweeping across our great nation. I entreat you, for the love of coffee, try different blends. I know the"F" word is cheap, but so are other, better coffees. It's a bit of a treasure hunt, but didn't we all want to be pirates at some point in our lives?

An Exploration.

    I talked a little about Charleston in the last post but I really didn't do the place justice. As I wandered around the town with some friends I found many treasures hidden behind corners and small alleyways. I just want to share a few pictures and stories. If you ever get around to it you should explore Charleston. I like being able to travel because I get to explore places that never would have existed in my mind otherwise. I may not be discovering things for the first time in history, but I am for the first time in my history. My world is constantly expanding through big and little towns, long and short stories that I hear and experience, coffees I try, pictures I capture, books I read. They're all puzzle pieces that make up the map of where I've been and what I've learned. So even if you are exploring your hometown or five miles from it or five thousand miles from it, go explore. Go find some more puzzle pieces. Here are a few of mine:

First, the ocean.

And me embracing the ocean.

Some building I discovered.

I've decided I want one of these.

Doors and signs.

Expressions.

This is a tea and spice shop. They had hundreds of leaves and grinds and dips and brews.

Behind a very slim alley was a quaint set-up complete with fountain, garden, tea-table, and this bench.

 The Black Fedora.  A random treasure full of books and mystery items and a dining area where they put on mystery shows that the audience becomes a part of.

 My hero: The Thin Man.

I love this picture. I wonder who they are.

When I saw this lovely gazebo I wished I had a dancing partner to share it with me.

And, for whatever reason, my favorite.

Turkish Delight

   So I've had a couple people ask my what I am going to write about on this blog. Are you just talking about Coffee? Just saying good places to go to?
  I feel an explanation is in order. Basically, coffee stimulates. It stimulates inspiration and thought-process and memories and ideas. It's a creative drink that fits into any life style and has many personalities. In writing about coffee I could easily start talking about mountains or rain forests or small children. I like drawing and reading and writing and taking pictures so there will be a lot of that, a lot of stories, a few profound thoughts.
  Coffee is creative and it is an art. So really this is more of a blog of creativity. Creativity and clumsy. Two words that greatly describe my relationship with coffee, and also, life. I journey around America and through books and museums and coffeehouses and playgrounds and churches and something that I've learned is that it's all tied together somehow.
  It's a long-winded answer for a few short-winded questions. But there you go.



  Having said all that, I shall now tell a story about a recent coffee experience:

  Last week I was in Charleston, South Carolina with my parents and aunt and uncle. After lunch we were walking around throwing out ideas of what to do, I suggested coffee which is a usual suggestion from me(when in doubt the answer is usually coffee or pizza). There are an abundance of coffeehouses in Charleston but we finally decided on Cafe` Paradisio. I didn't really know what I was in the mood for so I glanced over the menu and "Turkish Coffee" caught my eye. I sat down while my dad ordered our drinks.
  A minute later I hear the barista speaking in a somewhat concerned voice. My dad stopped him and called me to the counter. "Tell her," he said. "She's the one who ordered it."
  "Have you ever had turkish coffee?" The barista asked, seeming more concerned once he saw my young face and short stature.
  "Uh, no."
  He goes into a long explanation of how strong the coffee is and how intensely it is made and basically tries to talk me out of it.
  Cue random elderly man who appears out of nowhere, "Have you ever had Cuban coffee?"
  Me: "Yes, actually."
  Barista: "This is much stronger than cuban coffee."
  Old Man: "I saw her face light up when I said cuban coffee. She'll like it."
  So after finally convincing the Barista that I do indeed want turkish coffee he says, "How about I make it for you and if you don't like it I'll make you something else."
  That's very kind, but the fact that people are questioning my ability to drink said coffee instills in me and the iron will that appears often in my life.
  So I sat down as he made the coffee.
  If you are wondering what the big deal is about this particular coffee, allow me to explain. To make turkish coffee you boil the coffee in the water instead of filtering it. So imagine a very strong expresso except more so because it is constantly getting stronger. The blend of the grinds is not just coffee beans but also a lovely spice called cardamon. The ground coffee and cardamon spice embrace each other and form an inch-thick sludge at the bottom of the cup. You know that part on Monsters Inc. where Mr. Waternoose is talking to Sully and he gets a cup of "coffee"? The bottom part of turkish coffee looks like that.
  My family watched me with anticipation. I was firmly determined not to choke or freak or whatever because I wanted to prove that I was a real coffee drinker.
  The first time I had espresso I described it as a wonderful punch to the face. I wouldn't say that now. Honestly, espresso feels almost wimpy, comparatively. The best way to describe it is to say that it felt like a hundred little ninjas kung-fuing my insides, or, that there was a field of spice mines going off as the liquid went down. It was thick and brutal, but it left a powerful coffee/spice taste in my mouth that I liked in weird way.
So. I survived turkish coffee. I didn't finish the cup, but I survived.  After I was done I got some hot chocolate to tame the ninjas that were still bouncing around and my dad decided he would take the remains of the turkish coffee. But, to my great distress, he poured a packet of sweet-and-low in it. Turkish coffee is a beautiful art, and experience from another land, it's made to taste a certain way and should be respected as such. But against my protests of "You are killing culture!" he poured a second packet in and took it to-go as we continued around Charleston.

Once Upon A Time.

  Once upon a time there was a little girl who watched her parents drink coffee. She would take their empty creamer cups, dip it in their mugs, sip, and feel very adult.
  Fast-foward a couple years to when her brother came home from college and announced one morning that he drinks his coffee black. What was this? Another step in adulthood? Well, our now twelve-year-old heroine figured if that was what it took to make her brothers take her seriously than that, indeed, was what she was going to do.
  The only problem was: black coffee was gross. The bitter taste and thicker consistency was not appealing. Did that stop her? Of coarse not. So she sat  and had a cup of black joe with her brother.
  Eventually, she acquired a taste for it and over the years found great comfort in the stability of coffee, always there for her and never demanding anything more than for her to wrap her hands around the mug and enjoy the bliss it brought to her.
The End.

  ...Well, not really, it's the end of the beginning of my coffee journey. Sometimes people laugh at me when they ask what my hobbies are and I confidentially reply, "Coffee." But it's true. I love the satisfaction I feel from being able to distinguish between fresh pot and french press, mocha and latte, local-owned and Starbucks. I like searching through towns for hole-in-the-wall coffee shops with strange blends, or, large stand-alone shops with high-quality blends from countries no one has ever heard of. It's an adventure.
  I travel for a living and during my travels I go into a lot of towns that are in the middle of nowhere. Forgotten by civilization. Even forgotten by Wal-Mart. I come in contact with a lot of cool coffee houses, some scary ones, some surprising ones, and some that just exist in their own universe of serenity.
  So if you like coffee, or stories about coffee, or the smell of coffee, or even just the strange wonder of the thing, come join me as I tell the tales of this Coffee Country. (<-- See what I did there? I used the name of the blog to end my post. Clever, huh? Huh?...Ok, I'm done.)

-Field of Cans