Stir The Coffee Essay -- essays research papers

Through the steam of my espresso I could see a small arrangement of sparkly red shoes swinging to and fro underneath the counter at the coffee shop. A young lady had been sitting on the red stool since I had shown up, simply sitting watching the cook flip flapjacks throughout the morning with a develop feeling of interest. Here and there, and here and there, again and again, the player consistently shaped into flavorful strong manifestations, some with blueberries, some with chocolate, some downright and basic. The cook donned a brilliant cover that appeared as though it had been around everlastingly, cooked a million hotcakes, and still lived to tell its story of the oils and garnishes and syrups it had found in its day. The old man’s red shirt could be seen through the consume gaps in the cover, as though they were war wounds. The cook didn’t appear to mind the warmth of the oven, or mix at all when the consuming oil from the dish spat at his tissue. He was covered in a film of oil, spread and hitter, and just once in a while parted from his cooking ceremonies to wipe his temple with the sopping wet cloth that was thrown over his left shoulder. Every flapjack was a fragile creation that the elderly person arranged with incredible thought and exertion, making every one great, yet none the equivalent. Never would the man be contrasted with any machine-each one was unique, each one uncommon. The exceptional of the day was nutty spread flapjacks, despite the fact that I didn’t see anyone request that one. The young lady with the sparkling shoes, who had been there sinc...