Don't Drink the Mud!

The muddy Brazos River between Bellville and Sealy is the color of caffe mocha, but I certainly wouldn’t drink it. 

Yes, when I was a young girl, I made mud-pies, but I always stopped short of actually eating my sludge-like creations. My sister did eat grass once, choking on it and having to be rushed to the emergency room. But mostly we skipped the stage of childhood where kids ate grasshoppers and pill bugs and crickets.

Anyway, about the most disgusting thing I ever ate was the head of a shrimp, and that was an accident and certainly not revolting by Ian’s standards.  He ate beer cans in college.

I love a good cup of black coffee.

Ian does not.

But most mornings, he makes it just for me.

Yep, I’m a lucky lady.

On our recent trip to Turkey, the first thing we ordered at our hotel in Istanbul was a cup of Turkish coffee. We didn’t know much about Turkey, but we did know that Turkish coffee was special, and I, for one, couldn’t wait to see why.

Served in a blue and white demitasse cup, it was a tiny, pretty drink and reminded me of a foamy espresso, almost like a petite caramel macchiato without the caramel and vanilla. Yum. I couldn’t wait.

And so I sipped, slowly, for the coffee was super strong and very rich. And yes, very good.

But the coffee quickly turned thicker, heavier, and more sludge-like near the bottom of the cup. I assumed this was part of the Turkish coffee experience, and I spooned mine out before slurping it down. Or tried to. It left a bitter, grainy taste in my mouth. In my opinion, Turkish coffee was definitely not good to the last drop. Oh well. I had a java jolt for sure.

I warned Ian to add some water to his and stir it some more before he finished the rest.

Later that evening, while enjoying a Turkish feast on a roof-top restaurant overlooking the deep blue waters of the Bosphorus Strait, our Turkish dinner companion quickly set us straight on Turkish coffee.

“You never drink the mud!”

That’s what the bottom sludge is called. Mud. I think we should have figured that one out for ourselves, but oops! No wonder it tasted disgusting. The mud, which is finely-ground unfiltered coffee, settles in the bottom of the cup and is not to be consumed. We, however, assumed otherwise. The mud didn't look like the coffee grounds we knew so well. What else would we do but drink it all? The Baders leave no food behind. 

Our friend also told us that the Turks import their coffee, then prepare it in the method as rich in skill as it is in tradition. That’s what makes it so special. That’s why it’s called Turkish coffee.

Ian listened intently and has mastered the intricate process of Turkish coffee. I just loved listening to our new friend’s stories – her life in Turkey compared to the years she spent in America, her life living on the Asian side of Istanbul compared to the European side, and the traditions passed down in her family.

And while listening to her, I realized that our morning Turkish coffee experience had been lacking only one thing -- the flavor of friendship.

And I also wondered what our waiter thought when he saw us drinking the mud out of our cup. Oh well. God used 300 men who lapped water like dogs to conquer the Midianites. Who knows what he can do with two people who lap mud?

In the meantime, if you go to Turkey, learn from our mistake and don’t drink the mud!