On the Moka Pot: A Meditation in 4 Parts

Ten Sleep Canyon, Wyoming

 

First, a story:
I remember the morning alpenglow on the limestone walls of Ten Sleep Canyon, the cool air, and the wildflowers scattered throughout the meadow.  Or maybe it was the morning wind blowing through the piñon pines of El Rito, New Mexico's high desert? I can't remember the place. But I do remember the dull roaring of a Bialetti moka pot precariously situated above a pocket rocket stove and the rustling of a waking Josh from his tent. That morning, like every morning, I'd pour Josh a cup of addictive legal stimulant.
 

All summer Josh commented about my coffee, which was strong, dark, and viscous. It was the kind of coffee your machismo uncle said, “would put hair on your chest.” Josh sipped the velvety dark brew, shuddered, and then stared, bewildered, as I unhesitatingly guzzled it down. 

Making moka pot coffee was my morning routine for years both at home and in the woods. But that morning in Wyoming or New Mexico or possibly Colorado, I mentioned that I had always been confused about my beloved coffee gadget. It was marketed as a “six cup” stovetop espresso maker but each brew barely filled one coffee mug; what was the deal? Josh, still in his sleeping bag and a fresh cup warming his hands, began to laugh as he put it all together in his head. “Six espresso cups,” he chortled. “Chet, you’ve been drinking six servings of espresso every time you use this thing.” 

 

That would explain the jitters and my long love affair with big, bold, and borderline bitter coffee.
 

 

Now, a clarification:
The moka pot does not make actual espresso. There's not near enough pressure. However, it is still quite strong, it makes a kind of "crema," and is a worthy working-class simulacrum. And if it’s good enough for a 60.36 million Italians, it’s good enough for you. 

Then, a haiku:
black blood of the earth
trickling downward the altar
life unto the world

And finally, a recipe:

This recipe is inspired by Velo Coffee's Americano, which pushes the espresso shot through an Aeropress. The double paper filtration removes the bitterness but keeps the robustness that the moka pot is known for. It produces a strong but smooth cup of coffee that will supercharge your Monday.

1. Grind the beans somewhere in between espresso and drip; more coarse means less bitter. Brighter and lighter coffees work nicely but avoid the extra fruit-forward stuff. I like espresso roasts but avoid the big box store, pre-ground kind. If you live in Chattanooga, Velo Coffee Boneshaker is my absolute favorite coffee roast. So dang good. 
   
2. Brew the coffee in the moka pot. This Reddit user has provided a Moka Pot Master Guide; I wholeheartedly recommend using it. The three following bits are crucial: (a) boil the water before pouring it into the base (b) use a knife, finger, or Aeropress paddle to level the coffee with the lip of the basket but don't pack it down! (c) adhere a rinsed Aeropress filter to the gasket of the upper chamber.
3. Cool the bottom half of the moka pot in cold water (in a bowl or under the tap) immediately after the coffee has gurgled its way into the upper chamber. This prevents the beans from "cooking."
4. Pour the brewed coffee into an Aeropress as you would using the standard brewing method (upright and unturned).
5. Plunge slowly. This is a good rule of thumb for all Aeropress recipes but especially so here. Be particularly mindful as you near the bottom of the chamber. Since the only thing in the chamber is liquid there is not much resistance. Press too fast and extremely hot liquid will spew out the air vents in the bottom of the Aeropress.

Dang, I can barely write this without getting giddy. Give it a taste and let me know what you think!

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Bikepacking Florida's "Tour de Pines"

pines and palmettos, FR-309

I. Homesickness

I left my parents' home ten years ago this summer. My mother says she knew when I left Florida that I’d never come back and so far she’s been right. The Cumberland Plateau, the southern Appalachians, and the city of Chattanooga — they feel like home now. That is until I drive south and begin to see the trees. Something happens in my body when I see the dense forests of yellow pines and canopies of moss-filled oaks — something mysterious, perhaps even mystical. It’s as if the trees of the field are reminding me that no, this is home.

About a year ago, I began to feel homesick. I had not made that drive in some time and the pandemic would not permit me to make it for another while. I was reading Janisse Ray’s lovely Ecology of a Cracker Childhood and leaning heavily into “adventure biking” when I watched a full 50-minute POV video of the “Gravel Cyclist” riding the red clay roads from my hometown (Tallahassee, Fl), to Thomasville, Georgia, where my sister now resides. I began dreaming of bikepacking around where I grew up and continued to do so for an entire year.

I poured myself over maps, I stalked Instagram location tags and strangers’ Strava rides, and I put together a three-day “Tour de Pines” around north Florida’s gulf coast. And even though he didn’t own a bike, I coaxed my life-long best friend and adventure partner, Russ to do it with me. A week before the trip, he bought a 1985 Nishiki vintage 26” MTB off Craigslist and we were “good” to go.

II. The Trees

It would be easy to assume, as many do, that because of their flatness, the coastal plains of north Florida are monotonous and prosaic. To be fair, they appear this way from the window of a passing car headed to the white sandy beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. However, within the belly of the forest are some of the most biodiverse ecosystems left in North America: sandy flatlands and wiregrass habitats, federally protected titi swamps and longleaf pine savannas, and both salt and freshwater marshes full of fish, ibis, ospreys, eagles, and alligators. Lots of alligators.

FR-350

Loblollies surrounded my parents’ home. Southern yellow pines, like the loblolly and longleaf, are tall elegant trees that support the kinds of aforementioned bio-diverse ecosystems in the deep south. The thick branches grow high and create a rounded crown of green foliage whose queenly majesty reminds me of my paternal grandmother. I remember her long-legged, distinguished, and full of life as well. Amidst their roots, my roots are planted deep. Beneath their canopies, I came of age. That is, I grew up, like the saw palmetto and the red-cockaded woodpecker, in the shadow of the loblolly, longleaf, and shortleaf pine.

I didn’t read many of the books I was supposed to in grade school. But I did read The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. I don't remember much about it except that it's about a boy named Jody, born to settlers in the Florida backcountry. But I do remember the landscape; the “Big Scrub” topography which was portrayed as if it were a character itself, the way Cormac McCarthy does, but for kids. The scrub was an unforgiving and excoriating landscape. I guess my boyish self could read and remember The Yearling because it felt like I was reading my parents' backyard where I built forts, made believe, and caught crawdads in the creek among the towering pines and thickets of palmettos just like Jody.

Newport Campground

I thought about The Yearling and Ecology of a Cracker Childhood a lot on this ride. The Florida wilderness is every bit as harsh and as beautiful, albeit in its peculiar ways, as anywhere else I’ve been in the United States. I thought about the indigenous peoples these lands rightfully belong to, who lived and thrived in this landscape long before folks like Jody, Janisse, or myself ever set foot here. I thought about the Musgokee and the Creek effortlessly cutting through the sharp palmetto, one with it, just as the black bear still do (the highest concentration in the southeast reside here, outside of the Smokies).

III. The Route

Russ and I started at the Twilight and Munson Hills trail systems south of Tallahassee. These were some of the most fun trails I’ve ever ridden. They are non-technical, low-pressure, gently rolling cross country singletrack through pine savannas. It felt like the speeder bike scene from Return of the Jedi except our speeder bikes were vintage MTBs and the Ewoks were rare Sherman Fox squirrels, of which we saw a few. 

Then we followed forest roads along the Tally Tango route through Leon and Wakulla Counties. Here, the forest roads were incredibly sandy forcing lots of hike-a-bike. The closer to the coast we got, the more hard pack the "gravel" became, which made for great riding past old-growth longleaf pine stands, coffee-colored creeks, and a horrifying abandoned RV trailer. We spent the night at Pope Still hunting camp where we ate “Ramen bombs” and drank warm Budweiser.

FR-305

FR-369

The first day was unexpectedly hard and Russ was pretty spent. He found an alternative route on gravel and paved country roads that would bypass more hike-a-bike through the Bradwell Bay Wilderness towards Sopchoppy. I didn’t mind because the brake bolts had fallen out of my fork and my front rack was holding on by a bungee, so I needed a hardware store ASAP. We rode FH13 until it turned paved, went through Crawfordville, crossed the Wakulla River, and hopped on the Saint Marks Bike Trail down to its namesake river and town. There, we ate fresh from Florida raw oysters, smoked mullet, blackened grouper, fried shrimp, hushpuppies, and 2-for-1 pitchers of Bud Light. Five miles north, we made camp in Newport beside the Saint Marks River where we swam in the coffee-colored water, presumably with manatees in their natural habitat.

St. Marks River,  Florida

Newport, an unincorporated community on Highway 98, used to be the fifth largest town in Florida back when the “plank road” competed with the Tallahassee Railroad for commercial traffic in the nineteenth century. Now Newport is a blip but remains the gateway to the Saint Marks Wildlife Refuge and the home of Ouzts Too: a raw bar staple of “Old Florida” and the “forgotten coast.” And now the "Old Plank Road" is a supreme Florida gravel grind we took north toward Natural Bridge — the site of one of Florida’s few Civil War battles. In Woodville, we hopped back on the Saint Marks bike path, north, for another lap around the Twilight trails, and finally to the truck.

IV. Homecoming

Trees are some of the loveliest things on earth. I adore the American West, but it’s too empty, brown, and grey for me to spend too much time there. I much prefer the thousands of shades of green that cover the earth this side of the Mississippi. “I am at home among the trees,” Tolkien wrote. And for a few days, riding my bike, I was back at home among the yellow pines, mossy oaks, and cabbage palms of north Florida’s Gulf Coast. The loop was 102 miles, mostly "Florida gravel;" spread over three days, that’s nothing special. But spending 72 hours amongst the pines with my best friend was incredibly meaningful. 

 

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