Long walks- an everyday habit I picked up from my father-are my thought process. My calm down. My pump up. My escape. My whatever-I-need them to be. Growing up, the first place I was allowed to walk solo was to the neighborhood coffee shop. I remember the first sip of my sister's chai from there. Ew. What a weird notion that I would grow to love it. However, as I was frequently in need of a walking destination, I found my space there. (Although, it would be years before I gave chai the second chance it deserves.) Introduced to mocha granitas, coffee disguised in frozen chocolate milk, my current coffee addiction began. This, by itself, is a strange idea to reflect on. What has become so much of my daily routine, my work history, my fascination, and my hobby began with such a simple foundation. Such a seemingly small thing at the time that grew into so much of my life. See, the strange part though, is that the same can be said of my friendships. I know, right? Like I'm really about to compare my growth into coffee addiction to my growth as a human… (I am though, so just hang tight.) One of the most common things I heard as I prepared to leave for college was that I would always love my high school friends but that eventually we would leave each other behind…that my “best” friends would be made in college. Because that's “when people really start to figure out who they are.” Um, okay. I mean, don't get me wrong- I've met several of my best friends post high school. But, the majority of my closest friendships were formed during those high school years, and yes, we spread out far and wide geographically. (And hell, wait do I even know who I am now? Do people ever really feel like they're finished figuring themselves out, and they're just like chill, yeah, done growing, bro?) So, anyways, here's the concept of strong foundation again. As I transitioned to college, my coffee order began to change with me. For starters, frozen coffee was not included in my meal plan. And there were always late nights studying or freshman mornings that required just a little more kick. Maybe my coffee could be a little stronger. A little less milk. In addition, coffee walks remained my escape. And depending on the day, I could jam to the newest playlist my bestie had sent or bring a book and get lost in one of my favorite adventures. All with my comforting coffee in my hand. And eventually, I found love in just black cold brew. What a radical change from my initial order, but the love was still there. The way I came to drink and work with and find comfort in my brew changed but never the love for the brew. So many humans that I love I have seen change their order, their interests, their hobbies, their goals and aspirations, their fears, and their hopes. In those early college years, coming home to an old coffee hangout with a new order, I could only wonder if the relationships I had formed had changed too. It was a hollow fear. Although we were already far from being the same people that we once were, the original love remained. My friendships and my coffee have unquestioningly known the worst of my days. And both have only gained strength through my growth. Now, however, in my late twenties, I would never argue that I no longer know the person I was. The person that somehow stumbled upon those small, sweet moments that turned into the strongest of foundations. I can point out that I am no longer the same, nor am I proud of many parts of my past, but I still know that person, she is a foundation as well, of who I am today. I am often asked when dating to describe myself. To lay myself out on the line. But who do you want to know? I can tell you who I am in this moment, who I used to be, how I hope to grow, and yet, who I am remains difficult to define. I am fluctuating. Mornings that I have work I'm a chug-my-cold-brew-as-fast-as-I-can kind of person. Casual mornings with known or new humans, I'm more of a sit back and sip it kind of person. Often my coffee comes on adventures with me, giving me comfort when I'm lost in a story. Frequently, a coffee means a coffee and walk. Sometimes, it's an oat milk dirty chai kind of moment. And others, it's a black, so very black, add a double shot day. It's a fluctuation. With a basic, strong foundation- my love for the brew. My love for coffee is honest but not always simple. Humans are the same. We're forever fluctuating in who we are, each moment an addition to our own definition. And sometimes, we are fortunate enough to collide with another human, in such a small way and create this foundation for love that lasts through the ages.

I was asked which I prefer- pancakes or waffles? I answer. I smile. I find the bathroom, lean against the wall, and slide down to the floor. I try to fight the tears welling up. Jesus, what kind of reaction is this? I mean the simple answer? Pancakes. Although, I'm biased due to sentimentality. Pancakes are pretty much one of the only foods I've ever known my dad to cook. It was definitely among the first things I learned to make. We were always the first two up, and then slowly, my siblings would join, demanding the batter pouring and powder sugar rights. I never minded relinquishing them. Plus, if I distracted dad by asking him to prove he could juggle knives, a move he could only pull when mom wasn't around, then the siblings could get a hell of a lot of extra sugar on the pancakes. The last time I told that story was to Sean. He wanted to do something"nice" to make up for an argument we'd had. The thing about Sean doing something "nice" for you is that you find yourself wishing that he hadn't. In his world, nice acts demanded payback. It came at a high cost, even though you hadn't asked for anything. Often, I found his "nice" act was never worth the price I would later pay. In theory, the idea would be cute, but behind the words, there would be a demand for tears, guilt, and whatever act of service he desired that night. I began to prefer when he wouldn't do anything. Anyways, that morning's "nice" act wasn't any type of exclusion. It all ends in tears. His birthday had been one or two weeks beforehand. I'd asked him just about three hundred times what he wanted for it. He kept replying "nothing," saying that he wasn't really a birthday person. As a non birthday person myself, I feel this, and I dropped the subject. I mean if you want to celebrate your birthday, hell yeah I will help you go all out. But when I say I'm not into mine, I mean I'm entirely okay having a normal morning, maybe grabbing coffee with you, and never mentioning that the day is any different. I think both kinds of birthday people are great, and you can be either, any year. I draw the line at the people who say they aren't birthday people and then get angry you haven't got a celebration planned. Dude. You told me you didn't want me to, and I listened. I just wanted your day to be what you wanted it to be. Guess what type of person Sean is. Yeah, that third type apparently. I had decided to make his favorite dessert, because it was low key enough an act to respect he "didn't care" about his birthday. What a disaster that decision created. As I read this complicated recipe, I recognized I'm kind of screwed, and I go by work to talk with my favorite baker, get some key terms explained, and utilize my barista status to caffeinate myself. Jonah sent me off with lots of new knowledge and a reminder not to expect perfectionism in one of my first baking expeditions. It turned out...well, I did take ingredients and manage to combine them. I tried to layer it before it had cooled, not the first mistake of the night, but I think one of the most detrimental to it's appearance. I struggled onward, missing a nursing quiz due at midnight and consequently failing it. I ended up with a dense, chocolate, raspberry concoction, but decidedly, nothing that could be called a "torte." After a long next day of clinical, followed by soccer, I offered the cake. Yeah, it looked like a mess, but I figured in the end, it was just sugar and chocolate and raspberries. He rejected it and was upset I had barely recognized his birthday. I "owed" him. Back to the morning of making pancakes. Sean is making fun of my baking knowledge, when the story of me asking Jonah to explain some baking terms came up. Before I even finished half a sip of coffee, Sean's entire temperament has changed. I did dishes and tried to talk, confused about the change in atmosphere. It was fine, until we were eating, and then he focused on how much I was eating. His rage grew throughout the day. I don't want to remember the night. Waffles aren't really something I ever went for, until my date with Dylan. I was so tired and trying not to struggle, training for a floor that still wasn't my dream. It had been a rough couple of days. Most people I would have just cancelled on that morning. He's safe to be around when I'm exhausted though, because it isn't draining. He doesn't emit an overwhelming amount of emotion, so I don't have to deal with my own and feeling all of someone else's. I guess that's a terrible thing to want. But, it's safe. Like a filter for all the feelings of the world, protective and grounding. I was pre-caffeinated, but he was patient and interested. My appetite came up only in terms of if I'd eaten enough. And you know what I realize? I don't really give a fuck about pancakes versus waffles. I care about who I'm eating them with.