On Coffee

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For years, I have had a crazy love affair with coffee.  My taste in coffee has evolved much like my taste in wine.  I started out craving the sickly sweet stuff, and now I can’t stomach the thought of a caramel macchiato any better than I can a glass of white zin.

The many, many caramel macchiatos I enjoyed in my early twenties lead to some very interesting move-on-after-a-bad-breakup-sex with a barista.  (I’d like to never be bruised in all of those places ever again, please.)

I met Catch at the tail end of the caramel macchiato phase.  It was a time when I was perfectly content to sit and write with my best friend for HOURS at our favorite Starbucks after work.  I had a mad crush on (another) green apron-wearing barista at the time, too—she flirted with me like mad, but nothing ever materialized because I was too big of a chicken. 

To this day, caramel macchiatos remind me of that crazy time of self-discovery that involved vegetarianism, nanowrimo novels, horrible first/last dates, my only one-night stand, karaoke bars, dancing with gay men, endless hours of blogging, and the realization that broken hearts are just meant to be.

Fortunately, somewhere along the line I discovered that I actually like the taste of coffee more than the taste of all the sugar I was loading into it.  That lead me to the goodness of a plain old (soy) latte. 

And now, here I am—happily married with four legged children and a routine that does not involve watching drunk gay men sing Barry Manilow in a bar called Bananas.  Catch even proposed to me on a Starbucks cup.

Let me just tell you—as boring as a plain old (triple grande soy) latte may seem, I will take it any day over the insanity of the caramel macchiato.

 

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