THE CEZVE
“It was sitting on the back of the stove in the kitchen my stepfather, Tom, would never again cook dinner in.”
“Is that the Turkish coffee maker I bought in Paris?” I asked my mother, as if I were seeing it for the first time. It was sitting on the back of the stove in what was now her kitchen, the kitchen my stepfather, Tom, would never again cook dinner in. I was there helping with the things you help widows with: making the computer work, paying the car insurance, figuring out what to do with the stuff that would no longer be used or worn.
My mother said, “I thought it was from when you worked at Peet’s?” I picked it up. Someone had definitely made coffee in it—it was layered in grime and hadn’t been cleaned. And it was definitely the cezve I’d brought back from Europe more than two decades earlier. I’d given it to Tom, and since then for me it had blended into the woodwork of his and my mother’s many houses. When I gave it to him, they lived in Olympia, Washington, and after that he’d brought it with them on moves to Montreal, New York, New Jersey, Arizona and California, then finally to a series of homes back in Olympia.
Tom was a writer and a teacher of writing, always on the lookout for an engaging bit of news, a good piece of gossip, anything with the potential to be turned into a story. Whether it was telescopes in space or the particular guitar a particular musician favored, he was interested. (Unless it involved Motown, which he had an inexplicable distaste for. He liked the blues.) He loved having people over for dinner, asking questions, getting in rambling conversations, trading views of the world. He loved it most when it became an event, a night he could spin a story about later. “That was the night Jeffry told me about the penguins and the opera singer....”
Standing in my mother’s kitchen, I held the cezve, wondering when it had last been used. Turkish coffee is intense, especially for people in the U.S., where coffee drinks keep getting larger and less like coffee. In a cezve you make a small amount of strong coffee that you mix with sugar for a very, very rich shot of flavor. I’m sure Tom intended to use it again—he’d brought it with him on all those moves—but maybe he needed an event.
I can imagine him sitting with a friend from out of town after a post-dinner glass of port, deep in conversation about whether this or that writer was doing what they thought he should be doing, or what the impact of their own work was, or why someone they considered undeserving was on the bestseller list. I can imagine them sipping their strong coffee, delighted by the taste, the talk, the whole experience.
We tried to make his last weeks a bit like one of those nights. After an increasingly worse heart condition that led to a stroke, he was in the hospital on comfort care, and friends came and played music, told stories, read poetry, shared a bourbon toast. Former students and folks he’d taught with showed up to laugh about old times, discuss books and ideas and say goodbye. The baristas in the hospital’s Starbucks graciously made special-order coffees that Tom would like and be able to drink.
I’ve gotten the first layer of grime off the cezve; it’s held up impressively all these years. I hope to use it on occasions Tom would enjoy—and, when I do, to be delighted.
—Emma Margraf
Emma Margraf lives in the Pacific Northwest with her girlfriend, two dogs, three cats and nine chickens. Her writing can be found in The New York Times, The Manifest-Station, Chronically Lit, Folks and elsewhere.