Nothing takes me home like the sight of my father standing over the kitchen stove, making a pot of Arabic coffee. He stands over the stove, heating water in a small metal pot, waiting for the right moment to spoon in the mounding spoonfuls of coffee. Then he stirs the boiling coffee down, and lifts the pot, stirring again, then returns to the pot to the flame. It's a little dance, to boil the coffee without overflowing the pot. The rich smell of coffee fills the house, scented lightly with the sweet aroma of cardamom. He pours the little cups, as small as a child's play teacup, and carries one to my mother. They sit and sip in the afternoon sun, reaching for a bowl of chocolates.This is the daily afternoon ritual in my family home, and it is a ritual repeated all over the Middle East.
