Story coffee: An eternal coffee maker

My dear companions of our beloved coffee group. Today I am back to talk to you about something that I have been wanting to share with you for a long time, and that is very meaningful to me and my mother. I'm here to talk to you about the old coffee maker we use to make coffee at home.

Since I was tiny, I remember going to my late grandmother's house. I loved it because I loved her very much, and she spoiled me. It was a reciprocal affection between the two of us.

Every afternoon after school, I ran through the streets, sometimes cold, sometimes very hot. No matter the weather, I arrived on time for the appointment, that inevitable appointment.

When I arrived at his house, I could smell that characteristic smell of his brand of coffee. When I arrived at his house, I smelled the distinctive aroma of his coffee brand. It was penetrating, with a soft, fruity note.

That cedar wood coffee pot and a cloth strainer were responsible for that exquisite caffeine melody that flew to the ears and reached the pleasure zones of the brain. The hot water trapped by the iron cup drained through the dark brown cloth and merged with the dust, and every particle of water was impregnated with the delicious and fragrant aroma of coffee.

I was sitting on a small wooden bench built by my grandfather, who was as heavy and strong as he was. My eyes were delighted at the spectacle, and a smile appeared on my face as Grandma finished brewing the coffee. Then, in one of my favorite metal pots, my grandmother would serve me freshly brewed coffee and, to accompany it, a delicious bread, either savory or sweet, sometimes with cheese in the middle.

The delight was the ultimate, a symphony of flavors on the palate. There was no combination of flavors in other foods. I remember drinking her coffee, without bread, but with a cigarette. She said it was her delight, and even though I told her it was not good for her, she continued with her delight.

I will never forget those afternoons spent over coffee, talking about her youth, stories she would repeat endlessly. I never tired of listening to them, always feigning surprise, something she loved. Coffee was essential during our conversations, filled with memories and nostalgia.

A few weeks before she died, my grandmother called my mother, and as if sensing her death, she told her to accept the coffee pot as a souvenir gift in case she was no longer with us. My mother scolded her, telling her not to say that.

Then, after so much pleading on my grandmother's part, my mother received the coffee pot and promised her that she would take care of it no matter what. After a few weeks, my grandmother died instantly. Although there was no autopsy, we all assumed it was a heart attack due to her sudden death.

Whenever my mother goes to use the coffee pot, she remembers my beloved grandmother. In every sip, the memory of my grandmother is present. A little caffeine-flavored sigh escapes from my mouth.

This was a small tribute to my dear grandmother who left us twenty years ago but whose memory is still alive in each sip of coffee, made by that old coffee pot given to us with love, that love of mother and grandmother.