Redefining Coffee

The other day, God blessed me through a cup of coffee, hand poured by my Greek professor.

My friend who usually meets me for breakfast on Wednesday mornings decided to sleep in, and to my chagrin, the student dining room was out of coffee (at 7:30am? Really?). So instead I went to Dr. Peterman’s office hours—he had told our class before that coffee would always be available there. I listened to him and a few of my classmates talk through Mark 3 as he made me a pour-over in a green mug reading “Ἔστιν δὲ καὶ ἄλλα πολλὰ ὃσα ἐποίησεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς…” on the side: the Greek text of John 21:25. I took a deep smell of the coffee and the scent reminded me of Ethiopia. As I finished the last sip later in class, I was struck with a new fact: Coffee, to me, now smells and tastes like hospitality.

Ethiopia’s cultural connection to coffee is not completely unique: many cultures value coffee as a means of social connection and hospitality, even our own. Half the time when I’m spending money on coffee, it’s because that’s just what you do when you go catch up with a friend. The “coffee addiction” of many Americans has little to do with the flavor or even the caffeine–it’s for “the vibes,” the socialization, and the perceived boost in productivity. Coffee is very culturally significant to us.

Coffee is also something I personally grew up around—in a way, it’s very culturally significant to my family. Both my parents always start their day with a cup, and most of the time, the first sounds I hear when I wake up are the whirring of the coffee grinder and the hiss of the espresso machine. Before my parents bought the fancy stuff, there was a pot sitting on the counter that I learned how to operate when I was in elementary school. “This way, you can make coffee for your mom when I’m gone,” my dad told me. When we had chickens, one of my favorite chores became dumping the grounds into their coop and watching them go at it. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that most often I prefer a cup of tea to start my mornings. But coffee, with all its smells and sounds and tastes, is not unfamiliar to me.

So why redefine it now?

To start, I don’t think I’d ever actually tasted coffee before going to Ethiopia. Coffee ice cream, a caramel latte, or any of my usual orders are predominantly milk, sugar, and syrup with an infusion of coffee. Even if I take coffee at church or on an airplane, it’s 2 sugars and 2 creamers, or maybe half coffee, half hot chocolate. In my defense, I didn’t really like coffee for most of my life, so these were my efforts to appear mature and stay caffeinated without cringing at every sip. But I knew that while I was overseas, it was important that I eat whatever I was given (so long as it wouldn’t kill me), and in Ethiopia, that included drinking a lot of coffee (buna in Amharic). So in a way, the true coffee flavor was a blank slate for me when I tried it this summer.

Traditionally, there is an entire ceremony around preparing and partaking of coffee in Ethiopia. The hostess roasts the raw beans over live coals, hand grinds it herself with a mortar and pestle, boils the water over the coals in a jebena (a traditional Ethiopian coffee pot), adds the coffee, and lets it settle to perfection before finally pouring you a cup. The cups are little, but they still serve it with two spoons of sugar (which I was thankful for), and if you’re being served at someone’s house, you’ll go through a couple rounds of it. In Chicago, there’s a Starbucks on every corner. In Addis, there’s a woman with a jebena and incense burning (another part of the ceremony) in every restaurant, and in the home, the sini (small, handleless cups) are set on a low table, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

Only once did we actually get to have buna in an Ethiopian home. This family lived on the same property as the church we attended on our second Sunday in Addis, and they invited us over after the service ended. This couple had known Travis when he had lived there and were excited to have us over, but not only did they not speak English, but the husband and wife were also both deaf—an intimidating double language barrier for me. I didn’t know where to look or what to listen to, much less what to say or do as we sat together in their living room, the husband signing in Ethiopian sign, his oldest daughter translating into Amharic, and Travis translating into English.

There were so many things I could share about those few hours spent in their home, but what stood out the most was the welcoming warmth their family shared with us, despite the extra language barrier and intimidation I felt. And part of that was expressed through the meticulously, carefully, lovingly made coffee. The wife made us lunch, prepared in advance in anticipation of our arrival, but the coffee we had to wait for as she roasted it in front of us, took it outside to grind by hand (“it tastes best this way,” she signed), and boiled it in her jebena. She even poured a little and, dissatisfied with the consistency, put the jebena back on the coals to boil, then settle longer. Finally, the first round came.

We had tried traditional style coffee once or twice before then, and each time, I hadn’t been a huge fan of it. Travis promised me that the batch had been overboiled or burned, and that when made the right way, the coffee would taste better. And when I took that first sip of real jebena buna, my hostess’ labor of love, I understood exactly what he had meant.

Was the superior flavor from her long-developed skill and proper knowledge? Most certainly. But I also felt like that warm, rich, delicious coffee without a trace of bitterness, tasted better because it wasn’t made as my order at a restaurant—it was made to welcome me into her home, to include me in her family community, and to put me at ease in her space. And that it did: she encouraged us to “play” with them and try signing. Melissa’s ASL experience put her right at home, and I eagerly asked how to sign “thank you,” “buna,” and “yummy.” I wanted to make sure my hostess knew, in a small way, how much I appreciated her hospitality.

All those memories and feelings are what flooded back to me when I sipped the coffee from Dr. Peterman’s green mug. Though it was a different place, with different people, and very different coffee, it held the same message: “Welcome to my space—I’m glad you’re a part of it.” And who doesn’t want to feel that way?