*Sorry, D., A., and M. Not you.

If I were a poet (but then again, no), I imagine that a hefty percentage of my writing would be odes to coffee. Oh, how I love the stuff. My otherwise adorable doctor cut me down to one cup per day (See my reaction here.), so I put a lot of thought into the day’s brew. Even when we’re running late, poor Beloved knows that I can’t just drink any old lame cup of coffee. Oh, no. I am a special snowflake. And though I have my favorites, every day an adventure. From what region should it hail? What form should it take? Am I feeling for iced or hot? Espresso or cappuccino? Latte or flat white? Steamed milk or half and half or black? But as jazzed as I get about my daily dose of java, I don’t typically get too wound up about how it looks. These folks, however, have made me look at coffee (well, the varieties with foam, anyway) in a whole new light.

Hey, honey? We should probably leave a little early today . . .