Day 8 in Rwanda
When I read the first page of Toni Morrison’s novel Song of Solomon, I joined the multitude of disciples who followed both her work and her career. The content of her stories. The complexity of her characters. Her mastery of language. Her ability to bring the past so far forward that it sometimes read like it was the future. I will never outgrow my fascination of her work.
In one of the interviews of the book, Conversations with Toni Morrison, she shared the pre-dawn ritual that she practiced preparing her imagination for writing. The first ingredient of her ritual was waking early enough to have a cup of coffee at 5 a.m. She would have two slices of unbuttered wheat bread before sitting at her keyboard – I don’t remember if it was a manual typewriter or a computer – where she started to weave words into strings, like African women do with strings that ultimately become clothes or rugs or quilts.
I adopted this of Morrison’s ritual and coupled it with a scene from the sitcom, “Seinfeld.” In this scene, the character Elaine said that the Russian writer Tolstoy wrote in the village square because the faces inspired him. This helped me complete my own ritual.
I was already an early riser, so being ready for my day at 5 a.m. was no problem. Instead of coffee and toast, I alert my body that it’s time to get moving by moving – about an hour-long workout that’s a mix of cardio and weightlifting, sometimes swimming. After showering and completing any family chores that are required of me that day, I go to my favorite independent, neighborhood coffeehouse, claim my favorite table by setting my computer bag on top of it, order a bowl of oatmeal made with soymilk, and a small black cup of coffee.
I take my breakfast to my table and eat my oatmeal, sip my steaming coffee, and crack open a novel to inspire me and alert my mind that it’s time to be creative. I read about 10-pages before opening my laptop, opening the file of whatever I’m working on, scroll down to where I left off the day before, and wait to hear…the voice.
Other regular customers start coming in – stopping by the counter, placing their order, and either sitting at a table or exiting with a paper-cup filled with their drink of choice. I’m a regular, there at my table. Everyone knows that I’m in thought, so, they greet me with no more than a wave and a smile or a simple nod.
I watch them in the same manner that Tolstoy must have watched the people in the village square. I notice what they’re wearing, whether their laughing with the barista or yawning as they wait for their order to be filled. I read their clothes to determine if they’re a professional, maybe a student, or an artist who’s wearing paint-splattered overalls. I watch until the voice speaks to me. My fingers translate what I hear into the hieroglyphs of the English language.
Whenever I wasn’t in Memphis, I sought out independent coffeehouses where I could maintain my ritual. Years upon years of this ritual has resulted in me developing a sensitive pallet for coffee, which is why I was thrilled when me and my Spelhouse peers visited a Rwandan coffee farm.
The farm itself was interesting, as was the process that our guide walked us through. Sands from the nearby river created a layer of irrigation for the coffee seeds. After a few months, these seeds sprouted into tendrils that were relocated to paper cylinders. After they had grown about two feet tall, they would be transferred to a field, where they would be planted in a nest of straw that was meticulously maintained for about eighteen months. After they matured from green to a cherry color, they were picked and transported to a machine that hulled them and delivered them along a trembling conveyer band perforated with holes that were about an inch in diameter. The naked beans danced to a concrete vat, where they would soak until their skins were smooth. They would then float through increasingly narrowing concrete channels that would further clean them. After an acid bath, they would be spread across a cloth mesh, where the immature beans that had smuggled their way through the process were picked. After drying, they would be roasted to various degrees of taste, from light to dark.
We all of us toured this process, oohing, ahhing. But it was how our guide prepared our samples that fascinated me. He explained it like this:
“I have prepared for you coffee that’s at a medium roast. It won’t be too strong, but it won’t be light either. Many people put coffee powder in a pot or a machine and leave it to its business. That way, you get something to drink that’s like coffee but isn’t. There’s no attention paid to it, so the flavor isn’t nursed through. See, you start with the temperature of the water. It’s got to be just right. Too cold and the powder won’t set. Too hot, the powder will burn and make the coffee bitter. The water has got to be just right. And then there’s how much powder to use. This is exact, you know? No guessing. Either you know or you don’t. If you know, you get to enjoy the sacrifice of the beans. Yes. The flavor is there. Now, you need paper to strain it through. This is the right kind of paper you use. It’s just thin enough. Not too thick to where the taste can’t bleed through. See, this is the paper. You use this to shape a cone inside a funnel. Look here – this is the funnel. See? Yes. So, you pour the water, remember that the temperature must be right, you see? You pour the water into the cone, but not on top of the water. No. Don’t do that. You pour it slowly along the sides of the cone. See? This is how you do it. Slow like this, along the sides. This way the powder seeps through even and nice. The flavor is balanced. See? Yes. Slow like this. The powder don’t go through, just the taste. And the taste is right because the water is right and you’re using the right measure of powder and the right kind of paper. That’s how you do it. We show the people at the hotels that serve our coffee how to do it. We don’t want people to drink our coffee and say it’s too bitter or too light. No. We don’t want that. We want them to go “ahh.” Yes. That’s what we want. So, we show the people at the hotel how to get the water right, and what kind of paper they need for the cone, and how to pour it from the side. We do that. Yes. So, I’ve made a pot for you this way. The coffee is a medium flavor. Not strong, but it’s nice for people who don’t like it too strong. That’s when it’s really black in the cup. Okay. I will pour for you.”
He walked around the room with a tray of small white, ceramic cups. We each picked one. He then walked around the room with the pot of coffee. Some of us motioned for him to pour just a taste. Others of us, like me, motioned for him to fill the cup to about just an inch below the rim. The temperature was just right. The taste was a medium roast, just as he said it would be.
I sipped and sipped. And when I saw the bottom of the cup that had a thin coat of amber at the bottom, I went, “Ahhh.” He nodded at me and said, “See?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I see.” And then another, “Ahhh.”
