Image of Self

Bold scarlet demands attention at first glance. Vibrant and mournful, the color is reminiscent of the Lebanese flag, a lament to the bloodshed of war against invaders. From the Ottomans to the French, the bright red morphed and conceded, filling more and more until it drowned the cloth. Not until the flag was reclaimed with the ancient cedars of Lebanon did the color turn into one of pride and remembrance. Just as the chips in the red reveal a dark metal, the red tells these stories of holding onto the war-torn past yet moving toward a new future. Meadows bloom from the bloody red as scattered white flora, cloud-like in their soft edges. Pure and peaceful, these flowers could never have been as pronounced without the background of scarlet. The vessel is cylindrical shaped, with a wide, steady base that narrows as it goes up before flaring out into a lip. Jutting out of the side is a long arm, meant to protect calloused hands of the Sultan’s staff as they prepared his drink. The handle throughout history never discriminated between the hand of the politician or the philosopher, the Ottoman or the Lebanese, cultivating culture and conversations so dangerously it intimidated an empire. A grueling effort of bending, heating, and crafting designed the perfect shape, like the hands of Prometheus, lovingly sculpting man from earth and water. The precise shape is that of a cezve, a Middle Eastern coffee pot dating back to the 16th century Ottomans. This same pot served ancient kings as they muttered over treaties and declarations, welcomed guests of families after they toiled over the olive field, and comforted the shepherd in the field as he watched over goats and sheep.

 

Every aspect of its history and anatomy worked to create the perfect instrument to brew coffee, yet, to the disappointment of its makers, the cezve holds remnants of teas and herbs. In the beginning, it was content with its role designated by generations before it, finding comfort in the carefully calculated ratio of sugar, water, and ground coffee beans perfected by ancestors. Gradually through the weary passage of time the cezve turned into a simple boiling pot, creating a distinct scent palette of versatility on its smooth enamel. Smelling of black licorice, the aroma of yensoon first touches the skin with the caress of a gentle mother, coaxing memories of hand-stitched blankets and rose perfume. Anise seeds, which once boiled at the bottom of the cezve like a hundred teardrops of flavor, still echo in their endeavor by leaving the faint taste of licorice in every beverage brewed thereafter. The cousins, aunts, and uncles of their stems still lie in their mother country, the soil that grew them working to cultivate the next generation. Fresh rose petals curl in the air with the yensoon, dancing together in a flurry of herbal delight. Dark splotches at the bottom of the white enamel overpower with the scent of the burnt flora, the flavored syrup making every drink run through its thorny bed. Pine nuts add a unique nuttiness to the palette, somehow fitting in perfectly with the scent’s profile. Underneath the colorful mix still lies the faint jolting smell of freshly ground coffee, hidden, though never fully extinguished despite the hundreds of rinses and scrubs. Every pot of water brought to a boil is intermingled with these scents, giving the kishke soup the faint smell of roses and the lemon-honey tea undertones of anise and pine nuts.

 

Despite the pot’s bright spectacle of red enamel with childish white flowers, the occasional chip of color reveals a dark, nearly black metal underneath. Though the ominous color seems concerning, it remains sturdy and stable. The metal is undented, though scratched and chipped in many locations. Dark swirls at the bottom of the white interior look unflattering, yet when filled with liquid turns into a kaleidoscope of patterns, beautifully rippling and swirling like a hand-crafted tapestry. It refuses to distort to the fiery heat placed upon it, rising to a boiling temperature, yet never bending. Even if it does not follow the same role as its predecessors, its sculptor gave it the strength to survive through the scorching sands of the Turkish brew. It flourishes in the searing heat, never blistering or melting. Perhaps over time the enamel will chip away slowly until nothing remains but the barren expanse of black. Nevertheless, it will happily continue its role, brewing and boiling until the world runs dry.