a demitasse of Arabic coffee
I make coffee in the traditional way I learned as a child in my Mother’s kitchen. Boiling and stirring, the pot lifted from the heat each time the foam rises to the brim. The smell of coffee and cardamom takes me back to that kitchen; to her blessing and the old coffee pot she pressed into my hands before I fled the country. I serve the coffee in tiny cups with a small plate of dates. At the same time bitter and sweet, familiar and strange, exotic and ordinary, the taste of coffee is all I have left of home.