I will not discuss any recipes or new menus that I try. Ah, let's say I am remembering my childhood for a while.
One of my past memories suddenly recalled when I drank the black coffee I had just made on this dimly lit afternoon.
Also, I am not sorry, but longing.
I still remember what kind of coffee plants are growing so fertile in the garden next to my grandmother's house. It is not a garden spread over many acres. But only a few grandmother's remains. After school, after changing my clothes may be one of my activities if the coffee beans have started to look flushed, I will immediately bring a small bucket and immediately 'blusukan' under trees that are about three meters in size. Slowly, I would pick the coffee beans, filling the buckets that I hug in my arms. Every now and then I will climb to a tree to reach a seed that is high enough. No matter, the bumps on the skin due to mosquito bites follow me harvest as well. If it is collected a lot, grandmother will hold a pedestal to dry coffee to dry quickly in the courtyard of the house. Grandma will fry her on pottery with sparks from clay stove until blackened. If it is placed on a wide tray to cool it, the coffee will soon be smoothed with a fairly simple coffee grinder. That's it, my grandmother's processed coffee powder also arrived at my house for brewing.
It takes time, but the simple and traditional things are now I can not enjoy. After the grandmother passed away to Rahmatullah, no more fry the beans. Mom will buy coffee in the shop or supermarket. Everything is instantaneous, with no touch of hands. Indeed, my stomach and heart are more friendly with instant coffee because the content of coffee beans is not 100%, but it's like the original black coffee made by an unparalleled grandmother. Of course there is if we want to buy real black coffee, but still it is not homemade, just like the old parents who so 'painstaking' to make it. As if to give a touch of affection in every cup of coffee powder.