Ode to Moka

In certain aspects during these last 12 years I’ve become ‘Italianised’ living here so close to the border.  When I’m back in the UK I dread hotel sachets of instant coffee and certain coffee-house chains, famous apparently for their ‘Italian’ coffees, serve me an espresso the size of a large glass of wine.  “No!” I want to shout.  I don’t however, I just sit there sipping and dreaming of my trusty Moka at home.  I like coffee, very much in fact but as I already have a sleep disorder I was advised not to drink it after 2pm.  However, when I wake up the first thing after splashing my face is the preparation of the Moka.  Then I can work.  Like, about now…

Once I was a fruit on a tree
Then they dried me, fried me
Made a coffee bean of me


Photo credit: markmiller from morguefile.com

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