I take notice of the soiled pot upon the stove, the way the water boils as time has passed, feel the fibers of the coffee filter under my fingers as I push it gently into the mould of the strainer. Bodega coffee can with the lid popped off and the hole, created by slowly taking a knife and sawing the lip, cutting into the middle of the can, pushing the tab of shorn metal inwards, the smell of fresh coffee emerging. The water is poured into the mould and I am mindful not to spill, mindful of not filling it too high for it will overflow. The hissing of the water as it rolls against the red-hot sides of the pot, the bubbles underneath the natural flow that push the water upwards as it loosely streams downwards, into the filter, into the mold, mixing with the coffee. One pours and one waits, waits for the water to slowly seep through, waits for the coffee to mix with the water, release its flavors. It is important that one waits.
This process began as one induced by poverty, as the result of not having a coffee machine, not having a can opener. But there are things to learn through stretching out time, waiting for things to steep. The Earthy flavor of these moments intermixes with a getting-to-know of the daily objects we so often use and discard. The strainer, worn and chipped, becomes priceless. The pot’s marks upon its shiny exterior no different than the liver spots of an old man. It is through touching and taking time that one enters into a new realm of knowing, a deeper sense of what one’s life is comprised of. They are moments of contemplative meditation, simple and pure.
