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.