Monday Coffee Klatch: Odd Combinations

I don't remember what made me try salted coffee the first time, but it quickly became one of my favorites.

Salted coffee sounds weird, right? Ew!

Now, don't go dumping a bunch of Morton's into your coffee grounds. That's not it at all. The coffee doesn't taste salty. The salt is in the salted cream.

Less "Ew!" and more "Oooh!"

And not just a little cream, either. A nice, unapologetic dollop of it, floating on top of coffee that's already been lightly sweetened with condensed milk.

My favorite salted coffee back in Hoi An tasted almost like salted caramel. A sweet and creamy treat for the tongue. Definitely more of a once-in-a-while cup o' joe.

At the nice places, there's a bit more production to it. Coffee on the bottom, creamy layer on top, smoothed out and finished with a dusting of cocoa. 

It's pretty. It's indulgent. It's utterly unlike what the name brings to mind.

...Because at no point does it taste like "salt + coffee."

Which got me thinking about other combinations that shouldn't work, but somehow, for me, they do.

Like Stephen King and Terry Pratchett.

In the past year I've fallen into a pattern of alternating between them. Have you read either one?

King, of course, is known for horror. Pratchett is, well... fantasy, absurdity, social commentary, and a view of humanity through a cracked lens. They couldn't seem more different.

And yet, I've discovered two things they have very much in common:

They both have a VAST catalog.

And, once I'm reading one of theirs, the story just carries me along.

Since The Shepherd’s Hut by Tim Winton, I've gone King > Pratchett > King: 

Revival, The Light Fantastic, and now The Sun Dog. 

When I'm out with my Kindle and finish a book, it's easiest to pop into a familiar style. I guess that's what I like in my go-to authors: that confidence that there are plenty more good books where that came from.

So, who's your go-to author? Or do you bounce around like me? (I do have others, too.)

I'd love to know whose book you pick up as "comfort food" for the brain. I'm always looking for my next book.

Fiction Friday - The Mango Tree

 

Until he figured out what he really wanted to do with his life, Jesper judged he had it pretty good. 

He'd graduated in May. Now he stood in the morning light with a hose in his hands, humming along to the music playing from the speaker nearby as he washed fallen leaves off the paved circle under the mango tree. He looked up and nodded his chin at his sister when she walked in, late to work as usual, followed by the first customers of the morning. She'd seen what he was doing, so he knew she'd get their orders. He moved the hose to blast the leaves off the platform into the pebbled floor a few inches below. 

As he moved around the tree to clear the other side, the water ran down to a trickle. Odd. 

He looked into the end of the hose. He traced it along the ground with his eyes, checking for a kink. Walking around to look more carefully, he double-checked that no one had moved a chair onto it. Not that anyone was sitting up in this part of the coffee shop. The tables weren't set up here yet today, but sometimes customers took matters into their own hands.

The hose was fine. So what gives? 

He went back to the main spigot. Vanya met him there, on her way back into the kitchen with an empty tray. "All finished?"

"No, but the water seems to be."

"Uh, no. Water's fine. I just made two green teas and an iced mocha."

"Well, it's not reaching this pipe, then." He squatted down to get a better look at the connection.

"Weird. So are you going to help me with customers soon? We're filling up."

She was right. Half a dozen tables were occupied now. Time to switch gears.

When their mother came in an hour later, she took her time walking between the rows of tables, checking that no customers had been neglected, before sitting in her usual spot near the kitchen. It was her name above the door and she took an active interest in how well her kids were running it. 

Finally, they had both returned empty trays to the kitchen and came to sit with her for a few moments to take stock of the day. 

"Good," she said when they had both sat down, keeping half an eye on the room in case anyone needed attention. "News." She stated the word as an agenda item. "We knew it would happen sooner or later. Water rationing starts today." She glanced from son to daughter and back. It was their turn to contribute.

Jesper's eyebrows popped up to his forehead and back into place. "That explains the hose cutting off before I finished," he said with a wrist flick toward the mango tree. 

Mother nodded. "We will have to water the trees from a bucket, and only if it hasn't rained for three days." 

"What, there's a rule?"

"There are rules for everything now. Everyone's been too careless about water for too long. It was bound to happen."

"What about the drinks?" Vanya asked.

"Ah, yes. The critical question. This morning, as soon as I heard the news, I already sent a request for a special exception due to this being our family business. Until we get the exception, I'm afraid we can only serve until our daily business water ration has been used up."

The kids digested that news in silence. "So... closing time is just - whenever?" Vanya liked to know her evening plans before her workday ended. Mother nodded, eyeing her.

Jesper grinned wickedly. "Better update our hours online, sis." 

She squinted at him and pursed her lips in a sneer. This would upset a lot of schedules. A lot of lives. Without a word, she pulled out her phone. He wasn't wrong.

Jesper was almost disappointed not to have gotten a bigger rise out of her. With their mother looking over Vanya's shoulder, he considered the open garden seating area with new eyes. The hose was still lying in broad curves beneath the mango tree. He went over and began coiling it up. 

Today's story was inspired by watching the boy at my favorite coffee shop (see Coffee Klatch post here) hosing down the leaves under their mango tree. Water is a finite resource that not enough people treat with care. There's enough violent post-apocalyptic fiction written about it, but how will it start? 

Wednesday Poetry Corner - Sleep Well!

Nighttime showers fall,
Not too loud and not too soft.
Good sleeping weather. 

The view from my reading nook

 

The climate here is one of the things that drew us south. We may be 4 degrees of latitude closer to the equator, but Mui Ne is sandwiched between ocean breezes and an inland desert, so somehow it all balances out. Yesterday there was a shower in the afternoon, and then - nothing until bedtime. Much better than weeks of straight typhoon dousing! 

Monday Coffee Klatch - A Midsummer Night of Richard and Henry

Today we're settling in for a couple of hours at a place I go for coffee semi-regularly. Not actually a coffee shop, this is a public food court in town. I love it - burgers, curry, tapas, all in one place - and a full bar that serves coffee and smoothies and offers western breakfast dishes until 1:00. Basically, if I get hungry while I'm reading, I have options. 

It's a little farther from home, which is why I linger longer than at a local coffee shop. Plus, the salted coffee is on par with my regular place, only bigger. Bonus! 

Salted coffee at Dong Vui Food Court

Today, let's talk Shakespeare!     Wait! Come back!     

Don't run away! 

I get that he's intimidating. (Is he still required reading in high school?) 

I had read The Biggies: Midsummer, R&J, Hamlet, Macbeth, Much Ado, Othello. Comedy and Tragedy. But a few years ago I realized I was lacking in knowledge of his Histories. 🙄 So I decided to read one play a month, focusing on the histories. 

I'm an actress, and for decades I've had the embarrassing experience of being around theater people talking about plays they've been in - King Lear, Richard III, Henry IV - and thinking, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.

The first year I did this, it was almost all histories broken up with a couple of lighter, familiar ones. By the end of the year, I had read a whole bunch of Shakespeare's histories and could no longer remember which Richard had done what to which Henry. So I started an ongoing Shakespeare book report. Now every year gets its own document, with a section for each play. All I really do is briefly summarize what happens in each scene. It's not scholarly analysis. I'm trying to write approachable summaries. This is my personal Shakespeare survival guide: What the hell was happening here again? Now I don't have to go back to SparkNotes every time I encounter a play I've already read. 

For a while I had a chat group for people who were interested to try the challenge, but most people tapped out. The two who stayed in had already read most of his catalog so they became my Shakespeare lifelines whenever I needed the benefit of someone who had actually read the introduction. 

By now, monthly Shakespeare has become a habit. There are still plenty of plays to go, but some months I revisit one of the more confusing ones, and sometimes I choose a play I particularly like - like Macbeth every October - just to keep the fun in the challenge. 

And now, when someone quotes Richard III, I might even remember the reference!

Fiction Friday - Delayed

When Astrid's aging Honda Civic pulled into her driveway, she noticed a package on the front stoop. That was nothing new, but the hot pink post-it attached to it stuck out like a sore thumb. She pulled in under the tin-plated carport - the one ugly mark of this otherwise cute little bungalow she'd got for a song a month ago. Once the necessary interior renovations were finished, she'd have time to attend to this tin-roofed eyesore.

The pink post-it said, in meticulous, tiny script: "These arrived at my door by mistake. Happy tiling! 148b." Her tiles had arrived! She'd start on the broken down shower wall this weekend. 

The town planners didn't bother to give each house its own number on the outskirts of town. 148b sat across a narrow gravel alley from her cracker-box at 148a. An identical cracker-box house, 148c, was on the other side of 148b. After setting down the tiles inside, she leaned into the bay window, looking over at 148b. She had never met or even seen her neighbors. 

On the weekend, the doorbell rang while she was working in the bathroom. A man with a small "Chewy.com" box under his arm held out a clipboard to her. "Your neighbor's not home, but I need a signature. Can you handle it?"

"Um..." She didn't know the woman, but then again, 148b had delivered her package. She was probably safe. "Sure, I guess." Maybe now she'd meet Pink Post-it Girl. A teacher, if handwriting was any indication. 

The package was addressed to "E. McNulty" E. Elizabeth? Elinor?

After two attempts to deliver the neighbor's box on Saturday and one more try on Sunday, Astrid decided the woman was probably taking a weekend away. Later Sunday night, gritty after working and sweating in a tiny room, she decided to give it one more try. When there was still no answer she tore a sheet off the little notepad full of measurements in her pocket and scrawled. "Sorry I couldn't hand this to you in person. Hope you enjoyed your weekend away! - 148a". 

Just before tucking the note into an edge of the box, she impulsively added "Coffee sometime?" at the bottom. It was just good manners to know your neighbors in a small town like this. She listened for animal noises inside. Nothing. Of course, a cat or dog might be traveling with their owner. Or maybe the Chewy box was something for a classroom hamster. Teachers did stuff like that, right?

Astrid was out of town at a conference for most of the next week. She was greeted at her carport on Friday night by a tall, narrow box leaning against the house under the shelter of the carport roof - her shower fixtures! No pink post-it this time. She felt a tiny drop of disappointment, but at least it meant they got her address right. Carefully pulling past the box, she saw two large potted plants sheltering beyond it. That meant the nursery dropped by without calling first to be sure she was home.

Moving it all inside, she noticed an index card on a stake in the largest planter. In her neighbor's precise cursive was: "I'm not spying, but didn't see your car for three days, so I took the liberty of watering these beauties. Hope that's okay. - 148b". Then a line below that: "I don't drink coffee, but could meet for a cup of tea."

Astrid smiled. The pink post-it had conjured up a young, 20-something teacher. Tea seemed more mature - maybe 40-ish? Possibly a high school Lit teacher. Tea and a good book seemed like a fair pairing. She was looking forward to meeting this stranger even more now. At 36, she'd have more in common with someone in their 40s. 

Saturday was bright and sunny, so Astrid rented a paint stripper from the big DIY store and got to work on the back of the house. She hadn't noticed the colorful van pull up into the alley, but when a woman in her peripheral vision waved frantically at her through the carport Astrid turned off the machine and moved one of her ear protectors. 

"Hi, I'm Sally from the library. Sorry to interrupt your work, but I'm delivering books for Emil and not getting an answer. Can I leave them with you?"

Astrid's ears were ringing, even though she'd had protection. "Sure," she shouted back. "Can you just set them on that bench?" So her neighbor's name was Amy. How was that spelled with an initial E? Sally set the books on the workbench and looked warily at Astrid, as if not trusting someone using power tools with such a precious commodity. They smiled and nodded at each other and Astrid restarted the stripper.

When there wasn't enough daylight to keep working outside, she packed up the gear and cleaned up her mess. She had planned to go inside, but clearing the work bench uncovered the books. Thank God libraries cover their books in those plastic slip-covers! Astrid hesitated over the option to shower before trying Amy's door. "She's probably not gonna be there anyway." With that thought in mind, Astrid left on her paint-chip-encrusted work clothes and walked across the alley.

To her great surprise, the door was opened after a moment's delay. By a man leaning on a wooden cane. "Yes?"

"Oh! Hi! Uh...the library dropped off some books for Amy. Is she home?" Maybe Amy's father was visiting.

The man's face broke into a wide smile. "Emil, not Amy." He held out his free hand. "Emil McNulty, nice to finally meet you, Ms. Easterbrook."

A brief laugh escaped her open mouth. "You're not a woman!"

His smile turned into a chuckle. "Was it the pink post-its?"

She relaxed. "That, and your handwriting. It's so - perfect!" 

"Occupational hazard. I was an engineer. Would you care to come in for some tea, Astrid?"

"Oh!" She looked down at her clothes. "I'd love to, but I'd leave paint chips all over your immaculate living room." The house was indeed neat as a pin. A moving shadow caught her eye as she looked down at it. He noticed and followed her gaze to a large tortoise lumbering toward the open door.

"That's Clarence. We've survived worse than paint chips, but I'd better step outside and close the door or he'll run away." He said that with a wink and they both laughed. 

She looked from Emil to Clarence and the pristine room beyond and said, "I have to admit, you're not at all what I expected."

"I could say the same for you," he said as he stepped out to join her, ushering them to a pair of chairs on the little patio next to his steps.

"Me? What did you expect?"

He gave a shrug and said, "Based on the deliveries? Frankly, I thought you were a man." 

I called this one "Delayed" mostly because I'm a day late finishing it. Life got in the way. But I thought it also fit the way the neighbors' meeting kept being delayed. What title would you give it? Have you ever assumed something about someone and later found out you were completely wrong? 

Wednesday Poetry Corner - Kubla Khan with a Twist

It hasn't rained this week, so in lieu of a rainy day haiku, here is one of my favorite poems that I love even though I haven't the foggiest what he's on about!

Kubla Khan 
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

   Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round;

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:

And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;

And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

   The shadow of the dome of pleasure

   Floated midway on the waves;

   Where was heard the mingled measure

   From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

   A damsel with a dulcimer

   In a vision once I saw:

   It was an Abyssinian maid

   And on her dulcimer she played,

   Singing of Mount Abora.

   Could I revive within me

   Her symphony and song,

   To such a deep delight ’twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

 

Nine years ago, while living in China, I visited "The Great Khan's Summer Palace". (Full post about it, here.) Although the place was established by Genghis Khan, I like to think his grandson Kublai enjoyed it during his reign, too. 

The summer palace I saw is not recognizable as Coleridge's dream-induced "pleasure-dome" - really, it was a spacious city of yurts - but what would you expect of a man who conquered the continent on horseback? And these were not your average campground fare. They were basically mini-palaces of felt. Of course, with dozens of wives and concubines housed in their own yurts, "pleasure-dome" might not be such a ridiculous phrase. 

A few pictures from my trip, for comparison. 

The gate to the palace grounds

It's no Xi'an, but all these soldier statues look paralyzed in action.

A yurt big enough to house a throne room and audience chamber

So much space!

I realize Coleridge claimed to have dreamed the poem after taking laudanum... so maybe Xanadu has nothing to do with the Khans after all? 

 

Monday Coffee Klatch - Back Alley Beaches

Welcome back to the corner of Book Street and Beverage Boulevard. Today I'm introducing you to my second most common coffee hangout.

Last week I compared the rock garden café with the rice paddy overlook I used to frequent in Hoi An. Today we've downgraded from "rock garden" to "slightly green-ified alley."

This cafe actually caters to tourists with a lovely air-conditioned interior, but because it's right on the main drag, there's no room for tables out front. Instead, they've created little ledge gardens and tucked a few tables into the adjacent alley. Today I ordered a salted coffee and a strawberry-and-cream croissant to enjoy in the meager shade while looking out at the ocean. See it?

My view from the alley.

Just a little peek.

There, up and to the right of the trash can.

Notice I didn't say beach. Along this stretch of Vietnam's coast, there isn't much of one - it's mostly embankment. But when the tide cooperates, I can still wriggle my toes in the sand.

Not much going on here.

But enough about the coffee. On to the books!

Since last week, I finished The Shepherd's Hut. Awesome. Better than I expected, to be honest. Winton isn't an author who spells everything out for the reader, and I really respect that.

After finishing that one I started Revival by Stephen King. There was a preview chapter tucked into the back of another King novel I read months ago, and I immediately added it to my "want to read" list. Now I'm finally in it. I'm no speed-reader, but I'm already nearing the climax. In typical King fashion, the words fly by. It makes him very easy to read.

A lot of people avoid Stephen King because of the "horror" label. For years, I was one of them. But they're not all like that. Even as far into this book as I am, nothing supernatural has actually happened. Nothing more horrific than the very real horrors of life, death, and addiction. There have been subtle hints that something far stranger may be waiting at the end, though, and I'm looking forward to seeing how it all unfolds.

Have you ever read Stephen King? What did you think?

I tried one of his books when I was about 12 or 13 - a big one, possibly a short story collection - and it creeped me out enough that I never finished it. I waited far too long to pick up another.

These days, he's one of my go-tos.