Three tiny cups before MacGyver; three more for the woman who only spoke Amharic, but offered hospitality anyway.
She'd roasted the beans in an improvised tin pan, pounded them into gravel with an old iron pipe, brewed them in a painted gourd. The cups were half-full of the freshly-brewed black syrup.
If you measured coffee like booze, this stuff would be about 180 proof.
Her home was a shack, all possessions lost in the chaos that could barely be called a war. But she'd held onto her mother's coffee gourd.
I'll quit drinking coffee next week, I guess.