Isn’t it wild how the simplest of morning rituals, like brewing a cup of joe, can catapult you on a time-traveling adventure back to the days of yore? That’s exactly what happened to me this morning. As I savored the first few sips of my meticulously brewed French press coffee made with fresh ground coffee beans (from the mountains of Colombia!), a thought struck me – this doesn’t hold a candle to mom’s coffee!

Now, here’s the kicker. My mom, a superhero in disguise, single-handedly raised two kids while juggling three jobs. She didn’t have the luxury of buying coffee beans, let alone have the time for a grinder followed by simmering in a French press. Her magic potion? Instant coffee! A generous scoop from the big red plastic tub, a splash of boiling water, a quick stir, and voila! A steaming cup of black coffee, as is the custom for most Colombians.

While Cubans have their petite espressos, Colombians relish their ‘tinto’ – small shots of black coffee. But the coffee that had me reminiscing wasn’t her usual black brew. It was something special, something she made when she could steal a few extra moments.

She’d heat milk until it was frothy and fluffy, the likes of which I’ve never seen replicated on a stovetop. This creamy delight was then added to the coffee, creating a sort of ‘cafe con leche’. That was the coffee that had me lost in nostalgia this morning.

The memory was a bittersweet symphony, filling me with joy and a pang of sadness. Why the sadness, you ask? Because I know I’ll never taste that coffee again. Sure, my mom’s still around, but she’s traded her instant coffee for a more leisurely brew. I could try to recreate her masterpiece, buying the same ingredients, following the same steps that I’ve watched her do countless times. But deep down, I know it just wouldn’t be the same.

Isn’t life peculiar? The memories that fill us with the most joy often carry a tinge of sadness, simply because they’re experiences we can’t physically relive. But hey, that’s the beauty of nostalgia, isn’t it?