Cafe-Con-Leche
Unlike some of my friends, I am not a self-proclaimed coffee snob, but I love my coffee. I don't drink fufu-coffee with 15 different flavors which leave you wondering if it is liquid candy instead. And I sure am no coffee-baby born out of the Starbucks revolution which made coffee "cool" in the U.S. In Hispanic culture, in particular Puerto Rican culture which is what I am most familiar with, coffee is part of growing up.
As a boy, I remember visiting my grandmother in Puerto Rico during summer vacation. She always thought her "Gringo" grandson from Massachusetts was quite funny. I was about as comfortable in her little country home as a fish in a tree. I was scared of the farm animals, had feet far too tender to walk around without shoes, couldn't swim in the river behind the house without half-drowning, and probably complained a time or ten million, about the mosquitos. Needless to say from my grandmother's perspective, I was probably not much of a country boy.
One thing my grandmother and I did have in common was we both loved coffee. It is not uncommon for Puerto Rican children to drink coffee and it was not uncommon at that time (the 70s and 80s) for my grandmother to still pick her own coffee. We would walk up these hills and find the coffee bushes (they look like bushy little trees), pick the coffee beans (they look like berries or grapes when on the tree), and go through the entire processing process. It was a week-long affair and quite enjoyable. We dunked the seeds in water and left them overnight so we could get the beans out of the tough exteriors, then we laid them out to dry under the sun, then a few days later my grandmother would roast them in a large pot over an open pit she had built in her back yard. The final step was grinding the coffee down and of course, enjoying that first cup. It was magical for a kid who came from city life to experience such a cool process of taking something off a tree and putting it through this basic process to create something so delicious. It was even more magical because I got the opportunity to complete this process in absolute wonder of my grandmother.
I learned so much from that lady and while I was the strange grandkid who visited her every summer from some far off land, she made me feel extra special and probably babied me just a little more than everyone else because of it. And hey, who was I to stop my grandmother from gushing over me to all my other cousins who were totally jealous of me :). hahaha
So back to the coffee; I think everytime I brew a pot of coffee there is something truly special about it. It connects me to my past, represents the love of a grandmother and imbues a feeling of love. All in that small cup-o-joe.
These days many people have turned to teas instead. Fair enough. I guess someone has to drink shriveled crushed leaves in hot water. But as for me, I'll always have my Cafe-Con-Leche. Cause that's the way it's done.
As a boy, I remember visiting my grandmother in Puerto Rico during summer vacation. She always thought her "Gringo" grandson from Massachusetts was quite funny. I was about as comfortable in her little country home as a fish in a tree. I was scared of the farm animals, had feet far too tender to walk around without shoes, couldn't swim in the river behind the house without half-drowning, and probably complained a time or ten million, about the mosquitos. Needless to say from my grandmother's perspective, I was probably not much of a country boy.
One thing my grandmother and I did have in common was we both loved coffee. It is not uncommon for Puerto Rican children to drink coffee and it was not uncommon at that time (the 70s and 80s) for my grandmother to still pick her own coffee. We would walk up these hills and find the coffee bushes (they look like bushy little trees), pick the coffee beans (they look like berries or grapes when on the tree), and go through the entire processing process. It was a week-long affair and quite enjoyable. We dunked the seeds in water and left them overnight so we could get the beans out of the tough exteriors, then we laid them out to dry under the sun, then a few days later my grandmother would roast them in a large pot over an open pit she had built in her back yard. The final step was grinding the coffee down and of course, enjoying that first cup. It was magical for a kid who came from city life to experience such a cool process of taking something off a tree and putting it through this basic process to create something so delicious. It was even more magical because I got the opportunity to complete this process in absolute wonder of my grandmother.
I learned so much from that lady and while I was the strange grandkid who visited her every summer from some far off land, she made me feel extra special and probably babied me just a little more than everyone else because of it. And hey, who was I to stop my grandmother from gushing over me to all my other cousins who were totally jealous of me :). hahaha
So back to the coffee; I think everytime I brew a pot of coffee there is something truly special about it. It connects me to my past, represents the love of a grandmother and imbues a feeling of love. All in that small cup-o-joe.
These days many people have turned to teas instead. Fair enough. I guess someone has to drink shriveled crushed leaves in hot water. But as for me, I'll always have my Cafe-Con-Leche. Cause that's the way it's done.
Comments
Post a Comment