The Sunday Ritual

After breakfast, which normally consists of hash browns or pancakes with a side of coffee, I prepare the most important thing for the next week of my life: more coffee.  Here you can buy your coffee pre-roast or even pre-ground, but I didn’t join the Peace Corps to keep acting like an American.  No, here I have to do things the right way, the old way, the local way. 

I buy my weekly half-kilo of coffee beans green and raw.  I scrub them off, pull out the debris, and rinse them at least once more for good measure.  Even at this stage, that faint aroma of this divine substance that I’ve been addicted to since I was 15 years old starts to leech into the air.  I take the first few handfuls and toss them into my non-stick pan that’s been preheating on my electric stovetop.  Then I sit back and continue whatever book it is that I’m currently working on on my Kindle.  Hey, there’s nothing wrong with adding a slightly modern touch!

After a while, I hear and smell the beans beginning to change.  Like most cooking, after you do it a few times you don’t really need to use your eyes as much.  I put down my book, currently the Sherlock Holmes anthology, and stir them around a bit, maybe adding a splash of water if it feels like it needs it.  Then back to the book.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

When at last the beans have taken on the medium roast qualities that I favor, I shake them loose from the pan and pour them into the old powdered milk tin that I store them in. Sticking your nose into that can, you’d think you’d died and gone to coffee addict heaven. 

In the background, I hear the soundtrack of Fiche.  Maybe today it’s the cock’s-crow of the Orthodox church’s priest blasting over those crackling speakers.  Maybe it’s the repetitive, washing machine “duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-dun” of some Ethiopian music playing at one of the cafés down the street.  Maybe it’s a few sheep grazing outside of our compound wall, bahing  in a way that sounds less like a sheep and more like somebody impersonating a sheep.  If I’m lucky, it’s the melodic drizzling of the rain on the metal roof of our house, and the rain has silenced all of the other sounds by driving everyone in town indoors.

On go a few more handfuls.  Down go a few more chapters.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

After four or five repetitions, I’ve normally eaten half of the day and roasted the entire half-kilo.  My repurposed milk can smells so wonderful that I normally spend a few minutes with it glued to my face at the end.  Then the lid goes on, and I know I’ve spent a productive day in the Peace Corps.

Don’t worry.  I promise that I’ll bring you some, and we can do this ritual together when I’m home this summer.  Goal 3 all the way.

            ~Jessie