scribblechic

I am predictable in my indulgences.  On most days, you will find me balancing a Mocha and an oversized tote, varying from my signature beverage only occasionally for a seasonal treat.  On an ordinary day filled with mandatory errands I wished for something new.  Recalling a friend’s signature coffee, but uncertain of its nature, I submitted a simple inquiry to the ambiguous voice in my neighborhood drive-thru: “What is an Americano?”

My barista unfolded the history of the Americano with authority and efficiency, claiming the curious beverage originated when Italian soldiers attempted to make a cup of coffee. The vision my mind created of debonaire Italian soldiers fumbling over a cup of coffee in a fashion not unlike my first endeavors as a sleep deprived mother of two had me suddenly smitten.  With a simple order I felt myself shaking hands with history; stepping gently in the footprints of another.

I will never possess the thick Italian accent or dangerous curves of an Italian leading lady, but with this simple cup of coffee I poured myself into something new and fell in love with a story.