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