Blog Dis
Pouring an ibrik
2024-05-21
Never believe for a moment that you're above learning new ticks, for the moment you believe there's nothing new that can benefit you, well my dear readers for sure you'll be taught something, anything new. Our brains are the hungriest of entities sitting atop our shoulders, waiting to be fed with stuff, like words and images, new concepts and old re-worked thoughts. And yes, the brain is more than willing to allow you to pollute its thinking patterns with substances of a wild variety - alcohol to hashish, from anti-depressants to chocolate to cigarettes, high-fat foods and mountains of sugar. The brain welcomes it all, even when our inner voice tells us we shouldn't indulge in these destructive things. For some reason or another, our brain is willing to experiment with its own body, like it's speaking a silent language, "Hey, don't phucking argue with me. I'm your brain... just go along with my ulterior motives." I use the term ulterior because the reality is few utilize more than 5% of our brain capacity which means the other 95% of the brain is working behind-the-scenes, a subconscious level of activity that to the waking brain feels like being virtually asleep.
To repeat, learning is a good thing, even the simple, easy things which at the outset appear to be easy but which in fact may require practice. Well, tie me down and spread honey over my flesh and let the ants tickle me, before they chomp on my sweet body... I forced myself to learn how to pour an ibrik. I was rummaging through my kitchen cupboards the other weekend and came across the ibrik. It brought back memories. You see, I had no choice but to learn how to use one, to integrate one cultural apparatus with another. An ibrik is a Turkish coffee pot, designed with a large round bottom and a narrow neck, meant to sit on top of the stove or a fire in the desert, in which sugar and water and coffee grounds are added until the said mixture congeals into a thick substance called extra-strong-blackest-of-black-coffee. You drink and think on a whole new level because the coffee is so Gotdamn strong that after consuming one tiny espresso, you'll be convinced that the meaning to the Universe can be found in one tiny, grain of sand. 😅
I bought an ibrik out of desperation, and I'm reminded of this every time I make myself espresso on the weekends, and on the two days a week when I work from the office. I broke the actual carafe designed specifically to function with my Italian cappuccino maker, a De'Longhi machine. For 30+ years, I've loved and used my cappuccino machine with wonderful success, wiring my brain every weekend by consuming no less than (3) espressos (sometimes 5) to kick start the day. The purpose of this diatribe is to illustrate the importance of this ritual and how it's helped to shape my habits when alone. Why I broke the carafe, I stood there like an idiot watching in slow motion as the carafe slipped out of my fingers and crashed to the floor, and smashed into tiny pieces The horror! Instinctively, I knew that replacing the carafe would be near impossible. The cappuccino machine is old and was discontinued over 20 years ago, which is why I adore and cherish it. But I won't complain. I was able to enjoy its perfectly blended functionality of carafe to machine for many years. To this day, I still adore this machine; it was a gift to me from a sibling who realizes the value of coffee in my life.
Rule number one: change in life is a defacto standard. Nothing or no one stays the same and when you become possessively attached to one particular item you can bet your last dirty penny this item will go away, eventually. After I picked up the broken pieces of glass off the kitchen floor, my brain went to work on trying to come up with ideas of how to replace the carafe. I searched on the Uddernet and came up with zilch. Even De'Longhi didn't have newer models that would offer a carafe replacement to work with my old machine or so I discovered after reaching out to them. I went to stores to look at other machines and wasn't impressed with the latest offerings. Manufacturers want you to buy a machine that's specially designed to be used with pouches filled with coffee to work only w/ that particular machine. I tried matching other carafes to my machine and the fit just didn't fit. Until one innocent day while walking in the market, I went into a specialty kitchen store and came across their one and only stocked quantity of an ibrik. Could it work? Certainly it should! Maybe the crash of my glass carafe was pointing me in a new direction to give up the dark bean, tho' I wouldn't entertain such foolish notions. My brain loves the java hit and has thanked me on numerous occasions for the drug injection, especially if I mix coffee with chocolate.
I ended up taking the plunge. I bought the ibrik and dashed home. I filled my receptacle with grounds and the ibrik with water, emptying it into the cappuccino machine; easy enough. After the machine did it's thing and filled the ibrik to the brim, I removed my brand spanking new faux carafe and promptly poured the contents onto the kitchen counter. The coffee gushed out, overwhelming the rim of the cappuccino cup because the pourer hadn't a clue how to pour an ibrik.
There's an art to pouring an ibrik. Just ask Turkish nomads in the desert and they'll demonstrate. Hold by long handle, keep your eye on the coffee and balance the spout so that the dark liquid gently comes to the edge before allowing one drip into the cup. One must raise the ibrik up high enough to create a long, narrow stream until the cup is full, and then lower the ibrik at the right time to stop the flow. Wow! This is what I call a delicate touch. I was so thrilled at the time with my progress in only a matter of days that by the end of the weekend, my fingers were like wired munchkins working inside little scurrying mice. I could pour freshly brewed coffee from the ibrik into my espresso cup and only spilled some onto the counter, not all, but some. [Note: I had cheated initially filling up my machine with water bcus I titled the machine's spout, to match the water flow from the ibrik 😉].
Learning this skill, how to pour an ibrik, has taught me another thing and it is this; that in all the skies and above all the clouds bursting with rainbows, coffee and the brain belong with one another, I swear.
To repeat, learning is a good thing, even the simple, easy things which at the outset appear to be easy but which in fact may require practice. Well, tie me down and spread honey over my flesh and let the ants tickle me, before they chomp on my sweet body... I forced myself to learn how to pour an ibrik. I was rummaging through my kitchen cupboards the other weekend and came across the ibrik. It brought back memories. You see, I had no choice but to learn how to use one, to integrate one cultural apparatus with another. An ibrik is a Turkish coffee pot, designed with a large round bottom and a narrow neck, meant to sit on top of the stove or a fire in the desert, in which sugar and water and coffee grounds are added until the said mixture congeals into a thick substance called extra-strong-blackest-of-black-coffee. You drink and think on a whole new level because the coffee is so Gotdamn strong that after consuming one tiny espresso, you'll be convinced that the meaning to the Universe can be found in one tiny, grain of sand. 😅
I bought an ibrik out of desperation, and I'm reminded of this every time I make myself espresso on the weekends, and on the two days a week when I work from the office. I broke the actual carafe designed specifically to function with my Italian cappuccino maker, a De'Longhi machine. For 30+ years, I've loved and used my cappuccino machine with wonderful success, wiring my brain every weekend by consuming no less than (3) espressos (sometimes 5) to kick start the day. The purpose of this diatribe is to illustrate the importance of this ritual and how it's helped to shape my habits when alone. Why I broke the carafe, I stood there like an idiot watching in slow motion as the carafe slipped out of my fingers and crashed to the floor, and smashed into tiny pieces The horror! Instinctively, I knew that replacing the carafe would be near impossible. The cappuccino machine is old and was discontinued over 20 years ago, which is why I adore and cherish it. But I won't complain. I was able to enjoy its perfectly blended functionality of carafe to machine for many years. To this day, I still adore this machine; it was a gift to me from a sibling who realizes the value of coffee in my life.
Rule number one: change in life is a defacto standard. Nothing or no one stays the same and when you become possessively attached to one particular item you can bet your last dirty penny this item will go away, eventually. After I picked up the broken pieces of glass off the kitchen floor, my brain went to work on trying to come up with ideas of how to replace the carafe. I searched on the Uddernet and came up with zilch. Even De'Longhi didn't have newer models that would offer a carafe replacement to work with my old machine or so I discovered after reaching out to them. I went to stores to look at other machines and wasn't impressed with the latest offerings. Manufacturers want you to buy a machine that's specially designed to be used with pouches filled with coffee to work only w/ that particular machine. I tried matching other carafes to my machine and the fit just didn't fit. Until one innocent day while walking in the market, I went into a specialty kitchen store and came across their one and only stocked quantity of an ibrik. Could it work? Certainly it should! Maybe the crash of my glass carafe was pointing me in a new direction to give up the dark bean, tho' I wouldn't entertain such foolish notions. My brain loves the java hit and has thanked me on numerous occasions for the drug injection, especially if I mix coffee with chocolate.
I ended up taking the plunge. I bought the ibrik and dashed home. I filled my receptacle with grounds and the ibrik with water, emptying it into the cappuccino machine; easy enough. After the machine did it's thing and filled the ibrik to the brim, I removed my brand spanking new faux carafe and promptly poured the contents onto the kitchen counter. The coffee gushed out, overwhelming the rim of the cappuccino cup because the pourer hadn't a clue how to pour an ibrik.
There's an art to pouring an ibrik. Just ask Turkish nomads in the desert and they'll demonstrate. Hold by long handle, keep your eye on the coffee and balance the spout so that the dark liquid gently comes to the edge before allowing one drip into the cup. One must raise the ibrik up high enough to create a long, narrow stream until the cup is full, and then lower the ibrik at the right time to stop the flow. Wow! This is what I call a delicate touch. I was so thrilled at the time with my progress in only a matter of days that by the end of the weekend, my fingers were like wired munchkins working inside little scurrying mice. I could pour freshly brewed coffee from the ibrik into my espresso cup and only spilled some onto the counter, not all, but some. [Note: I had cheated initially filling up my machine with water bcus I titled the machine's spout, to match the water flow from the ibrik 😉].
Learning this skill, how to pour an ibrik, has taught me another thing and it is this; that in all the skies and above all the clouds bursting with rainbows, coffee and the brain belong with one another, I swear.
