A certain headiness comes with the first sip of a latte. It’s not just the taste — it’s the warmth, the anticipation, the ritual that precedes it. I usually start my day yearning for my iced brown sugar and honey latte. I queue the espresso shots in a shot glass — double and blonde. Then add a spoonful of honey to a cup, with a cube of brown sugar, and two dashes of cinnamon. Pour the shots right over them. The waft of that coffee goodness rises, swirling softly through the air. I stir it together until it all melts and becomes an elixir of comfort; dark, sweet, and enticing. Then I add oat milk until it’s my favourite shade of beige — rich and golden. Top it up with ice. A few gentle clinks, and just like that, my day is set.
The day cannot be heavy. A simple drink, and everything feels right. I can take anything on. Everything is possible.
I feel attuned to everyone who starts their day with a simple ritual. To all who existed decades before me. Centuries before me. Maybe the way of preparing coffee changes from one culture to another, and it changes from one time to another, but the comfort remains the same. The intention remains the same — to consume something grounding, and sacred.
