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Long ago, before parliaments, ballots, or constitutions, there lived a small bird named Demo.

Demo was no eagle with a thunderous cry, nor a hawk that ruled the skies. He was small, fluttery, and often loud at the wrong times. Kings looked at him and sneered:
“A bird that sings in equal voices? Ridiculous. The world is ruled by crowns and swords, not chirps!”

But Demo had a secret strength: his song could never be erased. No matter how often he was chased away, he returned, carrying the same tune:
“Every voice matters, not just one.”

And so began Demo’s long flight across history.

The First Nest

Demo’s first proper home was in Athens, some 2,500 years ago. There, citizens climbed a rocky hill and voted by raising their hands or dropping stones into urns. Demo perched above them, his wings beating with pride.

But here’s the part people forget: it was not everyone’s hill. Only free men who had completed military service were welcome. Women, slaves, and foreigners were barred. Still, for the first time, rulers trembled when the crowd shouted “No!” rather than bowing their heads in silence.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fair. But Demo had a nest, and his tune was spreading.

The Hiding Years

When Athens fell into chaos and conquest, Demo was nearly silenced. Kings and emperors, from Rome to Byzantium, tried to chase him from the skies. For centuries, it seemed the little bird might vanish.

But Demo was clever. He hid in unlikely places:

• In Iceland, around 930, farmers and chieftains gathered in a lava field called Thingvellir. They recited laws as poetry, so no one could claim ignorance. Imagine a parliament where the law is sung, not written — Demo fluttered above, chirping along with the rhythm.
• In Swiss valleys, peasants met once a year in open meadows. To vote, they didn’t raise their hands. They raised swords. Picture hundreds of villagers standing under the mountain sun, blades flashing like silver leaves, shouting their will. Demo perched on a helmet, amused.

Most of the world believed democracy was dead. But in these icy fields and alpine valleys, Demo’s fragile song survived.

The Reawakening

Centuries passed. Then came the American Revolution (1776) and the French Revolution (1789). Demo sang loudly again. People tore down thrones and declared that governments should exist only with the consent of the governed.

But predators circled. Mobs wanted blood, generals wanted crowns, and kings wanted revenge. Demo needed protection.

So the Guardians of Democracy appeared:

• Judge Owl, solemn and sharp-eyed, keeps watch for unfair laws.
• News Fox,(do not mix it with Fox News), sly and quick, sniffing out lies and spreading truths (sometimes cheeky ones).
• School Tortoise, slow but steady, teaching each new generation how to think instead of what to think.
• Parliament Dogs, noisy and argumentative, forever barking at one another, but in doing so, keeping intruders away.

These guardians weren’t flashy. Sometimes they were boring. Often, they annoyed people. But without them, Demo would have been eaten long ago.

The Thin Line

One of Demo’s greatest challenges is balance. My law professor once said:

“Democracy walks on a tightrope stretched between anarchy and dictatorship.”

Imagine Demo now, tiptoeing across that rope. On one side yawns anarchy — a world of pure chaos, where everyone shouts, no one listens, and no rules are obeyed. On the other side looms dictatorship — silent, heavy, suffocating, where one voice commands and all others are gagged.

Both sides are deadly. If Demo leans too far toward chaos, he falls. If he leans too far toward control, he also falls. The tightrope is frighteningly thin, and it stretches endlessly into the future.

And so the Guardians walk below, steadying him. Judge Owl warns when laws are broken. News Fox yaps when secrets are hidden. School Tortoise whispers lessons about history’s mistakes. Parliament Dogs bark loudly whenever one tries to dominate the pack.

It’s noisy, messy, and never perfect. But it keeps the little bird from tumbling.

The Fragile Treasure

History shows what happens when the rope snaps.

• In Weimar Germany (1919–1933), Demo perched nervously. Elections happened, speeches were made — but the Guardians were too weak. Judge Owl’s warnings were ignored, News Fox was silenced, Parliament Dogs grew toothless. In the vacuum, wolves in uniforms leapt. Demo barely escaped with his feathers intact.
• Even in Athens, his birthplace, Demo was driven out by tyrants more than once.

These stories remind us: democracy is not a permanent home. It is a campfire that must be fed daily, or it dies.

Today

Every time you vote, argue politely, protect a minority voice, or simply read critically, you are feeding Demo. You are steadying him on that rope.

Stop caring, and Demo grows weak. Call him annoying or useless, and he may fly away. And once gone, it often takes centuries for him to return.

Lessons to My Kids:

• Democracy is like a bird on a tightrope. It needs balance. Too much chaos, and it falls. Too much control, and it suffocates.
• The Guardians matter. Courts, schools, newspapers, parliaments — they are not boring details. They are the balancing poles keeping Demo upright.
• Your voice feeds the bird. Without many small voices, Demo starves. Even one quiet chirp matters.

Notes to My 80-plus-Year-Old Self:

If Demo still sings outside your window, be grateful. You have lived in rare times. Most people in history never heard his tune for long. Tell your grandchildren that democracy is not a pet bird, safely caged. It is a guest, free to fly away if neglected.

Remind them of the tightrope, the guardians, and the dangers on either side. Remind them that this bird is not inherited like furniture. It is borrowed from the future — and must be returned in good health.

Because once Demo flies away, it takes a very long time before he dares to return.

“Why do we have to go to school? It’s so boring. It feels like a jail.”

Ah, children, this is your never-ending anthem, performed every morning with the tragic drama of an Italian opera. And because I promised to always take your questions seriously, let’s put the School itself on trial. Exhibit A: your complaint. Exhibit B: My defense.

A (Funny) History of Schooling

Once upon a time, there was no school. Children learned by watching adults. If your family fished, you fished. If your family farmed, you farmed. If your family fought… well, you learned to hold a spear taller than yourself.

Then came the Spartans. Their idea of “school” was simple: teach boys to fight and endure pain. If you survived a night in the forest with nothing but a cloak and your fists—congratulations, you passed.

Meanwhile, in Athens, education looked a bit more elegant: Plato under an olive tree, surrounded by young men in togas, debating the meaning of justice. That was school: philosophy, logic, and sandals with terrible arch support.

Fast forward a thousand years, and education moved into monasteries. Picture cold stone walls, candles, endless chanting in Latin. Students copied books by hand until their fingers cramped. If you dared to whisper, “This feels like jail,” you’d discover how creative monks could be with punishments.

Then the Renaissance arrived. Suddenly, people wanted to read, paint, calculate, and argue about the universe. But schools were still for the wealthy. Ordinary children? They were too busy plowing fields and herding goats.

Enter Napoleon and the Prussians. Napoleon wanted citizens who could read military orders; Prussia wanted obedient soldiers and factory workers. Voilà: the modern school system was born. Rows of desks, bells, timetables, and chalkboards. Tempus fugit—time flies, especially when ruled by bells.

So yes, you’re right. Sometimes school feels like jail. It was partly designed to.

The Mystery of Long School Hours

And then there’s the famous question: “Why are school hours so long?”

Is it because children’s brains are delicate soufflés that need seven hours of careful baking? Or is it… a plot?

Some historians whisper that the real reason was not about children at all—it was about their parents. If children were safely locked in school all day, parents could go to factories, offices, and banks. In short: schools doubled as babysitters for the nation.

So when you sigh about “too many hours,” remember: the timetable might be designed less for your neurons and more for our paychecks. Cui bono?—who benefits? Is it the parents or the capitalism?

But Why Do We Still Need It?

Here’s the twist: school isn’t really about stuffing your head with facts. It’s about learning how to learn.

Take the motto: Non scholae sed vitae discimus—we do not learn for school, but for life.

Yes, you will forget half the history dates, chemistry formulas, and grammar rules. No one at Migros will ask you to recite the parts of a flower or solve quadratic equations before selling you tomatoes. But what stays is the ability to reason, to argue, to think. That’s the treasure hidden inside the “prison walls.”

Prof. Andreas Schwarz

Let me tell you about Professor Andreas Schwarz, who taught Civil Law and Roman Law at Istanbul University, School of Law. He was a German-Jewish scholar who fled the Nazis and found refuge in Turkey. Babacim had the luck to be one of his students.

He and his classmates expected him to grade like everyone else—based on whether the conclusion of a legal case was “correct.” But Prof. Schwarz did something radical. He never graded the conclusion. Instead, he commented on “the way”each student had reasoned their way to it.

“The conclusions will always change with time,” he said. “What matters is the way of thinking you use to reach them.”

Imagine the shock of students who expected red Xs and instead found notes on their logic. Some hated it. Others adored it. But years later, many realized: this was the best lesson of their education. Caveat discipulus—let the student beware: thinking is more important than answers.

My Maths Teacher

And then there was my own mathematics teacher in High School.

He was a very short, hairy man, certainly not a Brad Pitt-looking type —at least, that was the impression at first sight. His arms and hands seemed too large for his small frame, and his looks didn’t exactly command interest at first. But appearances deceive. What he lacked in physical beauty, he more than made up for in creativity and touching the hearts of his students.

He had a special gift: the ability to capture the attention of even the naughtiest, most distracted student. His humour was sharp, his energy contagious. But his greatest invention was this: he wrote poems on our exam papers. Yes you read correct: poems… Four lines for each student. Mine mentioned my green eyes. Another student’s poem praised his football skills. Another captured a girl’s loud laugh.

When we realized he had written thirty different poems, one for each of us, we were stunned. Suddenly, maths wasn’t just about numbers—it was personal. Every one of us leaned forward to see what our “poem grade” would be.

The result was spectacular. In every one of his classes, the average grades rose significantly. He had given us a message stronger than any lecture: “I see you.”

But life is never simple. It turned out he hadn’t completed his military obligation. He was detained by the military police and had to report to the military headquarters. The day before leaving, he gathered all his students in a park. We all showed up. We said goodbye through tears.

That day, I learned that the bond between teacher and student can be as strong as family. He didn’t just teach us math. He taught us humanity, the importance of humour and “everyone can be good in maths”.

Other Teachers We Never Had

Not every teacher needs a classroom. Some are voices in books or videos that reach millions.

Take Sal Khan, the founder of Khan Academy. He started by tutoring his cousin with simple YouTube videos, and accidentally created a global classroom. His idea was radical: everyone should learn at their own pace, with no shame in rewinding, pausing, or replaying. A child in Bangladesh, a mother in Brazil, a banker in Berlin—all can sit in the same invisible classroom. Docendo discimus—by teaching one, he ended up teaching the world.

Or think of Richard Feynman, the brilliant American physicist. He was known as “the great explainer,” turning the mysteries of quantum mechanics into stories anyone could follow. Bill Gates once wrote the introduction to a collection of Feynman’s lectures and called “the best teacher I never had.” Imagine that: one of the richest, busiest men on Earth regretting never sitting in Feynman’s class. That’s the power of a teacher.

Pros and Cons of School

So yes, my dear children, schools can feel like prisons. Bells, rules, bathroom passes, endless lectures. Sometimes the system crushes curiosity.

But schools also give you friends, structure, exposure to different ways of thinking. In some countries, those places are the only places that the children have proper meal and exposure to knowledge. They give you at least one or two teachers you will remember for life. They show you that learning is not just about answers but about journeys.

The truth is: schools are imperfect. They mix inspiration with boredom, creativity with monotony.

A Challenge to You

But here’s the exciting part: maybe you will be the generation to invent something better.

Imagine a school where curiosity itself is the curriculum. Where children present topics instead of memorizing them. Where technology allows replay, rewind, pause—but human teachers still guide with care. Where projects matter more than worksheets, and where the timetable is designed for minds, not factories.

Could you design such a school? Could you turn the prison into a playground of the mind?

Fiat lux—let there be light.

Lessons to My Kids:

1. Don’t confuse knowledge with wisdom. Knowledge changes; wisdom is knowing how to think. (Prof. Schwarz would approve.)
2. One good teacher can change everything. Treasure them.
3. School is flawed. Learn from it, but also dream of improving it.
4. Remember: Non scholae sed vitae discimus. You don’t learn for school, you learn for life.

Notes for my 80-plus-year-old self:

Old lady, remember:

• You asked the same “Why School?” question many times before. Read at least the parts of this story if you`ll feel confused.
• Remembered Professor Schwarz, who valued reasoning over conclusions.
• You cherished your maths teacher’s poems more than any formula, and you never forgot the park where his students said goodbye in tears.
• If you still didn`t make a donation to Khan Academy, do it now…

So when your grandchildren ask the same question, don’t roll your eyes. Smile and say:
“It may feel like a prison, but the key to freedom is hidden inside.”

In 2008, I was a lawyer in Istanbul, working day and night with two partners. We had our boutique law office in a rather good location close to the center. My life was a carousel of contracts, negotiations,  endless meetings, full of execution proceedings and long client visits. The evenings were filled with dinners, drinks, and parties—always a different group of friends, always somewhere to go.

Home, technically, was still my parents’ house where I was born, grew up, and became an adult. But I treated it like a hotel with full service. Laundry was magically done, food was waiting in the kitchen, though I was hardly ever there to eat it, and my clothes were always carefully pressed. I was a guest in my own family home—dropping in late at night, disappearing early in the morning, leaving only the trace of a shadow.

And then there was my friend—the Matchmaker. She had made it her personal mission to find me “the perfect man”. Ideally, someone from her inner circle, so we could all be together forever.

She tried. Oh, how she tried. After a few failed attempts, she decided to think outside the box.
“One of my very good friends lives in Switzerland,” she announced one day. “And his best friend… he might be a potential.”

Apparently, this mysterious best friend was even scheduled to come to Istanbul for business for a couple of days that fall.  Maybe a meeting could be arranged. He came sometime in October, but he never contacted my friend. Alea iacta est—the dice were cast, but nothing happened… yet.

So she hatched another plan. She would spend a month in Lausanne for her academic research in February 2009, and during that time, she invited me and one of my partners to come and visit her.
“It will be fun,” she said. “And maybe…” (there was always a “maybe”).

The truth was, it was a great opportunity. Free accommodation, just the plane tickets to cover. We used our credit card miles, booked the flights, and off we went. Carpe diem—seize the day.

Geneva — February 5, 2009

Our first stop was Geneva, and from the very beginning, it felt like stepping into another world. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that bites your cheeks but makes you feel alive.

We strolled along the banks of Lac Léman, watching swans glide as if they owned the water. The Jet d’Eau shot proudly into the sky, almost defiant against the winter gray. We crossed the bridges, stopping in the middle just to breathe in the view: the water below, the mountains in the distance, and the city wrapped around us like a jewel.

The old town was a maze of cobbled streets and hidden squares. We climbed up to Cathédral Saint-Pierre, where the bells echoed through the chilly air, and peeked into small antique shops and cafés tucked between centuries-old walls.

That evening, we met with my Matchmaker, and then we, all three ladies, found ourselves in a little bar, sipping wine and laughing about nothing in particular. The city was quieter than Istanbul for sure, but there was something intoxicating about its calm precision. It felt as if Geneva itself was whispering: Festina lente—make haste slowly.

It was cold, yes—but the excitement of traveling to a new country kept us warm. And maybe, just maybe, the wine helped too.

Lausanne

Our next stop was Lausanne. A completely different city, perched dramatically above the lake. Younger, livelier, more playful than Geneva. Its streets twisted steeply up and down, cafés spilled with laughter, and students filled the air with energy.

We stayed two days, soaking in the atmosphere. One evening, we had cheese fondue with your father’s best friend, not realizing yet how connected our stories were becoming.

Bern and Zurich — February 8, 2009

On February 8, we continued our journey. We stopped in Bern, had lunch, and played like children under the snowflakes. Then the train carried us on to Zurich Hauptbahnhof.

Zurich welcomed us with snow and light. From the station, we stepped into the winter air, and I was instantly enchanted. At Central, next to the Coop, I stopped.

“Hello, Zurich,” I whispered.

And what a hello it was. The Limmat glided calmly through the city, the lake shimmered beyond, and the mountains rose proudly in the distance. Framing it all were the towers of Grossmünster and the graceful silhouette of Fraumünster. A postcard came alive.

We went to the apartment where we would stay—three girls sharing one room, like a school trip. We had a reservation for dinner at a restaurant in Niederdorf, the cobblestoned old quarter of winding alleys, warm lights, and laughter echoing between medieval walls.

A Wrong Turn

“The appointment “was set for 18:00. My friend had called him—your father—and he had agreed to meet us.

We left for the meeting point but, in classic fashion, took the wrong direction and ended up at Central, looking around for him. He wasn’t there.

Here, I urge you to remember my first story now—taking the right bus in the wrong direction. Once again, I thought I had arrived at the right place, but it was not the case.

We retraced our steps, laughing at ourselves, and finally reached the crime scene: La Terrasse.

And there he was.

Waiting in front of the restaurant. Well dressed. Elegant. His care, his attention to detail, struck me immediately.

We began with drinks, then he joined us for dinner. Conversation flowed easily—laughter, stories, ideas tumbling over each other. Later, he suggested a last drink. But Zurich on a Sunday night didn’t offer many choices. We ended up back at La Terrasse, closing the circle.

Around midnight, we said goodbye.

It had been a wonderful evening—so much fun, so much warmth. At the time, I didn’t know that this goodbye was not an ending, but a beginning. That this man would become my partner, and that Zurich would one day be my home.

His Side of the Story

Meanwhile, your father had just returned from Laax. Tired from skiing, sunburned, and facing an early morning at work the following day, he almost cancelled.

At the last minute, he changed his mind. Fortuna audaces iuvat—fortune favors the brave.

And that decision changed everything.

Later, my partner revealed a surprise: under the table, she had secretly taken three photos of us. The first time we met. How lucky I am.

Those photos remain among my most precious belongings. They show us leaning forward, curious, smiling, unaware of the story just beginning.

Lessons to my kids:

• Sometimes the best plans are improvised. A friend`s invitation,  a short trip with tickets bought on miles—it seemed random, but it changed everything.
• Show up. Your father almost didn’t. If he had stayed home, none of you would be here.
• A goodbye can turn out to be a new beginning. Endings are sometimes beginnings in disguise.
• Treasure the small things. Even secret photos taken under a table can become your most precious keepsakes.

Note for my 80-plus-year-old self:

Remember this, old lady:

• It was February 8, 2009. Zurich. Snow falling, lights glowing, laughter flowing.
• You said hello to Zurich, and to the man who became the love of your life.
• Your friend’s determination, your partner’s secret photos, and his decision not to cancel—all of these threads wove together into the fabric of your life.
• Keep those photos safe. They remind you that fate works quietly, often under the table, with a shaky hand on the camera.

And next time you are tempted to say no, remember: sometimes the smallest yes can change everything.

Post scriptum: Amor vincit omnia—love conquers all.

If you ask me, coffee is less of a beverage and more of a cosmic plot twist. One day humanity was dragging itself through mornings, eyes half shut, brains resembling mashed potatoes, and then — boom! — coffee appeared, whispering in our ears: Carpe diem, but caffeinated.

Legend credits an Ethiopian goat herder named Kaldi. He noticed that after chewing some red berries, his goats started prancing, dancing, and inventing parkour centuries before it had a name. Instead of calling an exorcist or composing a ballad about demonic goats, Kaldi tried the berries himself. The result? He, too, began hopping around like he had springs in his sandals. And thus, unwittingly, he staged history’s first episode of “Man vs. Bean.”

From Ethiopia, the little miracle traveled to Yemen, where Sufi monks adopted it. Imagine rows of drowsy monks trying to stay awake through endless prayers, when suddenly — eureka! — coffee kept their eyelids open. For them, caffeine was less about Instagrammable latte art and more about staying conscious through the night.

Enter the Ottomans

From Yemen, coffee crossed the Red Sea, hit the spice routes, and marched into the Ottoman Empire around the mid-16th century. And when the Ottomans got hold of it, they didn’t just drink it. Oh no. They turned it into culture, diplomacy, and occasionally, scandal.

In Constantinopolis, coffeehouses sprouted like mushrooms after rain. They were called kahvehane — places where men gathered to sip tiny cups, talk politics, play backgammon, and exchange poetry. Think of them as the Wi-Fi cafés of the 1500s, minus the Wi-Fi but with more gossip.

At first, the authorities were suspicious. Sultan Murad IV even banned coffee at one point, worried that these gatherings were hotbeds of sedition. (Spoiler: they were.) But you can’t keep people away from coffee for long. It was too delicious, too addictive, too perfect an excuse to linger. Soon even the palace kitchens were brewing it, and coffee became so prestigious that Ottoman brides were judged partly on their coffee-making skills. Fiat coffea, pereat mundus — let there be coffee, though the world perish.

And from Constantinopolis, coffee spread further: to Venice in 1573, then across Europe. Eventually, it reached England, France, the Americas — and finally Starbucks, where a “small” cup somehow became “Tall.”

The Ritual

Turkish coffee is a story within a story. It is not just “coffee.” It is an opera in miniature, with its own overture, climax, and encore.

In my father’s family, 11:00 a.m. was sacred. Not for prayers, not for politics, but for coffee. At that exact time, the curtains were pulled aside to reveal the Bosphorus in all its shifting colors. From their apartment, the view stretched across the strait directly toward the Old Town: Topkapı Palace, Hagia Sophia, Galata Tower, domes and minarets etched against the sky, as if history itself had pulled up a chair to join.

Every day, the ferries and boats slid back and forth across the water, carrying Istanbulites from one continent to the other. It was a scene where past and present danced together — the ancient silhouettes on the horizon, the modern hum of boats, and, at the very center of it all, a small family gathering around tiny cups of coffee, savoring each foamy sip as if it held the secret to time itself.

The ritual began with roasting the beans — at home, mind you. Forget supermarket packets with glossy labels…These beans sang their smoky aria right in our kitchen. As they cracked and darkened in the pan, their perfume filled the house like incense in a cathedral, announcing salvation was near.

Then came the grinding. But no electric grinder humming like a polite dentist’s drill. No. This was an ancient brass hand-grinder, cylindrical and stubborn. You turned the handle, crank, crank, crank, until your wrist ached and your arm begged for mercy. By the end, you had powder so fine it looked like it could be mistaken for Cleopatra’s eyeliner. Labor omnia vincit — work conquers all — especially when you want your coffee strong.

After the grinding, came the brewing in the cezve, the small copper pot with a long handle. Water, sugar (sometimes), and that divine powder. The cezve sat on the slow fire, bubbling with patience. You had to watch it closely, for the goal was foam. Without foam, Turkish coffee is not Turkish coffee — it is muddy soup trying to impersonate greatness. The foam was our philosopher’s stone: proof of mastery, symbol of dignity. If it boiled over, shame. If it was flat, despair.

At last, the sacred act: serving in the tiny cups. No big mugs the size of flower pots. No. A delicate porcelain cup, smaller than your palm, because Turkish coffee is not about quantity. It is about the concentration of flavour, aroma, and destiny.

The Fortune

Because, of course, the story didn’t end with drinking. The ritual’s encore was fortune telling. After finishing, you flipped your cup upside down, let the grounds slide down, and — voilà! — the universe had written you a secret letter in brown hieroglyphs.

Was it accurate? Rarely. Was it dramatic? Always. Blobs became mountains. Lines became roads. Dark spots meant strangers arriving, sometimes wealthy, sometimes suspiciously handsome. If you were lucky, a heart appeared. If unlucky, a dark puddle meant… well, usually, “you should drink less coffee.”

My Mother’s Version

My mother was a virtuoso of this art. She had her secret trick. Before flipping the cup, she always cleaned the rim with her tongue — yes, her tongue! — so the upper part wouldn’t turn too dark. “Otherwise,” she whispered, “bad luck.” I sometimes suspected she invented this just to avoid staring at her own caffeine shadow.

She was quick, too. While others waited for the grounds to settle, she peeked into the cup almost instantly. CIA agents would have envied her speed. One glance and she declared: “All clear.” Sometimes she even interpreted her cup before mine. Honestly, I began to wonder if she had signed a private contract with the coffee gods.

I miss those moments dearly. Coffee with my mother wasn’t about staying awake. It was about being together, laughing, and pretending that the universe had hidden our destiny in swirls of brown mud.

Science Joins the Table

Now let’s invite science to the party, because coffee is also chemistry. Each bean is a tiny laboratory of alkaloids, polyphenols, and volatile compounds. Caffeine blocks the adenosine receptors in your brain — those little party-poopers that tell you “go to sleep.” Result? You stay awake, alert, convinced you can write a 600-page novel tonight.

But there’s more: antioxidants that fight free radicals, polyphenols that charm your heart, and acids that tickle your stomach lining if you drink too much. Pros: sharper mind, longer life, social rituals. Cons: jitters, sleepless nights, and the occasional moment of staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. muttering mea culpa for your fifth cup.

The Machine Age

Fast-forward to today. Push-button machines hiss and bubble, pretending to be magicians. They even claim to make Turkish coffee with foam, thanks to clever engineering. But where is the grinding wrist ache? The bubbling suspense? The delicate foam-lifting maneuver? Gone, replaced by a blinking panel that says: “Clean tray.”

Don’t get me wrong — I appreciate progress. But a machine never tells you that a tall, dark stranger will knock on your door. It never predicts that your neighbor will return your Tupperware. It never licks the rim with its tongue to protect you from bad luck. In other words, sic transit gloria coffei — so passes the glory of coffee.

The Legend of Babacım’s Coffee

Your grandfather, my dear children, was known among his friends not only for his kindness and wit but also for one very specific skill: making the perfect coffee.

When guests came over, they didn’t politely wait to see who would prepare the drinks. No, they would look straight at him and say:
“Where is Babacım? Let him make the coffee!”

He was, quite simply, the champion of foam. His coffee always arrived crowned with a rich, silky layer of foam—the pride of every proper cup. And believe me, that foam is not just decoration; in coffee culture, it is a matter of honor.

For years, everyone wondered: How does he do it? They tried to copy him. They bought the same coffee, the same cezve, even borrowed our stove once, convinced that there must be some secret tool hidden in our kitchen. Still, their cups looked pale in comparison.

Many, many years later, Babacım finally revealed his secret. And oh, what a surprise it was! No rare spice, no ancient technique, no complicated stirring method. It was… butter.

Yes, butter! Not a spoonful, not even half. Just the tiniest speck, so small it could barely cover the tip of a toothpick. That was the secret ingredient that gave his coffee that magical foam. One tiny dot of butter was enough to elevate him from “man with a cezve” to “legend among friends.”

When he finally confessed, people laughed, some didn’t believe him, and others immediately rushed to their kitchens to try. Of course, most added far too much and ended up with a greasy disaster. That’s the thing with secrets: it’s not just the ingredient, but the patience, the balance, the years of quiet practice.

Lessons to my kids:

• At your age, coffee is not your friend (unless you want to turn into hyperactive hamsters doing laps around the classroom).
• Foam is not just decoration—it’s pride. Remember: no foam, no glory.
• Secrets are often simple (like Babacım’s tiny dot of butter), but they require patience and practice to work.
• One day, when the smell of coffee starts to feel like “home” instead of “ugh,” come to me. I will prepare the real thing 🙂
• Please promise me: don’t drown your future coffee in whipped cream, syrups, sprinkles, and chocolate chips. Respect the bean.
• And finally, remember that you’re not just drinking coffee when that day comes. You’re drinking history, memory, and legacy.

And then—ah, then comes the best part. After we finish, we will do what our family has always done: turn the cups upside down onto the saucers, let them cool, and then try to read our futures in the coffee grounds. Don’t worry, I won’t predict anything scary—only things like, “I see a mountain… which means you’ll have to clean your room today,”or, “This looks like a cat… You will meet a very lazy one who will sleep on your homework.”

That way, our coffee will end not only with warmth but also with laughter.

Note for my 80-plus-year-old self:

Dear future me,

If you are reading this, chances are you’ve already had thousands of cups of coffee—some hurried, some shared, some unforgettable. I hope you still prepare it slowly, with patience, and never lost the joy of watching the foam rise.

Remember how Babacım used to add that tiny dot of butter? I hope you still smile every time you do the same.

If the kids are now grown-ups with their own kids, I hope they sit with you, tiny cups in hand, and finally say: Mama, this is delicious. Why didn’t we like this before? And you will laugh, because you knew this day would come.

And if your hands ever tremble too much to make it yourself, let them prepare it for you. Let them carry the cezve, let them guard the foam, let them share the tradition. Because coffee is never just coffee—it is memory, togetherness, and love served in a cup.

Sip slowly, old girl. You’ve earned it. Cheers, Me 🙂