Coffee Hour (Descriptive Essey) Essay, Research Paper
The clock, left in the family house for more than a few generations, announced noon. Noon witch as long as they remembered was used for nothing more than a sit down with a spouse, close neighbor or a passer bye, the coffee hour.
Cracking beneath a strongly knitted carpet announced the arrival of a person while knock on the porch door announced the arrival of a neighbor. The strong but pleasant smell of freshly grounded coffee occupied the house in witch the time has stopped ticking some fifty to sixty years earlier. Not much has changed since the last visit; walls are still pale white, pictures in symmetrical order line the walls, and stains from childhood pranks still stay as a testament to time, as if to show that every one in the family has something they can point out and tell a story of what has been and what is.
Quickly the corner of the room is filled with three occupants, who stare out the waist high window, which is looking out to city?s main crossroad. A quick glance at the wristwatch reveals that five minutes have passed and that coffee is ready. Small, but quick steps are heard as they echo trough the house.
The door opens and she rushes to the wood burning stove; lifts the Djezva as boiling water hits the hot surface releasing a cloud of steam which quickly evaporates trough a world war 2 bullet hole, converted in to a chimney a few years earlier. As she turns she greets the visitor with the usual phrase ??Dobar Dan??, and with a deep strong voice the visitor replies and adds a smile. Her approach to the table prompts everyone to grab something of the table and make room
The visitor, sitting right by the window leans forward as his eyes look around the room and near by kitchen. He spots a picture of two young boys in front of the city hall with about 5-foot fish hanging over their heads. It was a city record catch, which still stands after some thirty add years. He smiles thords the host, as the host looks at him and sends a bright smile back, and chatting begins. Conversation is loud and every other word is followed with a deep laugh, which lasts not more than two to three seconds. The conversation keeps going for more than five minutes, and it stops when a plate of sugar cubes is louvered to the table.
The host lifts the Fildjan, with smoke vaporing out of it, as he brings it closer to his face, his eyes grin and wrinkles on his forehead expose a scar next to his right eye. The grin increases as he brings the Fildjan closer and closer, and finally he takes a small sip. For a moment the world stops, as he enjoys the taste of Turkish and blended domestic black coffee. He exhales as compliments on the good coffee follow.
Trough the crack in the kitchen door, we look and wait for the familiar sound of the grandfather clock. The sound which will sound only once to announce 1 pm. As the clock bongs, we all pile to the door and watch as they sip the last of the coffee. They stand up, say good byes, and slowly go back to the daily chores, which they were working on just before, the coffee hour.