Tag Archives: coffee shops

People / Places, Postcards

Moving Mountains …

Been making a humble Thursday morning practice of popping in the coffee shop down the road before work.

Just to stand in line for a cortado and sit for a few minutes.

In between the standing and sitting, I always seem to find something to fill my cup. 

This past Thursday there wasn’t much of a line, so I stepped to the front, ordered, and skooched to the left to wait. 

The waiting area’s directly in front of where the barista prepares the orders. 

I’m careful not to stare.

But I do try to catch a glimpse when they’re doing the pouring. 

I find all artful pourers mesmerizing. 

The person working Thursday is new-ish. 

Been there maybe a couple months. 

Don’t know her name. 

Just her smile.  

She began with the requisite two shots of espresso. 

Then moved to the milk.

I’m always curious to see if a barista trusts in gravity and surface tension to do their jobs … and fills the cup beyond its edge.

It’s always magic to me to bear witness to how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I find a hope in that.

Like nature’s just waiting for us to learn from its example.   

I’ve noticed that some baristas favor the control of holding the cup in one hand to bring the spout closer … while others place the cup on the counter to keep a steady target. 

The delicacy of the draw gets me every time.

The mere idea of painting with a brush that only ever gets so close to its canvas. 

Seems prayerful to me. 

Any distance between source and vessel requires a measure of faith.

I’ve learned that the precise amount required has little to do with how great or small the distance.   

Hers was one fluid motion into the countered cup. 

But then, she did this thing. 

Post-pour, she reached for a spoon. 

I watched as she used it to gently skooch some of the foam where she wanted it to go. 

My immediate thought was that maybe things initially didn’t turn out the way she wanted.

As she skimmed the surface, she cupped her empty left hand parallel to her right … as if protecting a flickering match from the wind.

Her left hand had no practical purpose, other than maybe just to let the right know it was rooting for it. 

By which I mean it may have had the most important job of all. 

Satisfied, she put the spoon down and ushered my cup forward to let me know it was ready.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that … with the spoon,” I confessed. 

“I do it all the time,” she said. “That’s my move.”

So, she had made no mistake. 

She just wasn’t done moving mountains. 

I asked her her name. 

“Jaye,” she said.

“We’ll call it the ‘Jaye,’” I said. 

“Aww, thank you,” she smiled, also a signature move.

It was only then that I looked down … to see that she had used the spoon to crack a tiny heart open. 

By which I mean she used the spoon to crack my tiny heart open.

 

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Righteous riffs

The ‘Emma 2’ ….

Paused at the coffee shop before work for a to-go cortado to shim my Thursday. 

“Pete,” Morgan greeted me when I walked in. 

Her expression seemed sombre, but that could’ve just been a pre-cortado take. 

“I have to give you something,” she said. 

Hands me a hand-written note. 

“Dearest Pete …” it began. 

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Couple years ago I got the best birthday card from my daughter. 

She would’ve made a good cave painter. 

Her accompanying talk track illuminated the epic tale of her seeking counsel from Liam the Wise (whose official title is ‘barrista,’ but in this saga let’s call him “the Oracle”) on what all is involved in getting one’s mug hung on the wall behind the coffee shop’s counter. 

Liam not only offered his wise counsel, but mapped directions to the precise mountain where the monks live who, for hundreds of years, have been humbly practicing their glass making craft of the perfect cortado vessel. 

By which I mean he pointed her to a website. 

Upon procurement of the mug, he told her that I need only bring it in and they would take it from there.

In Emma’s card I knew that I might just be holding the best birthday present I would ever receive.

By which I mean the card, and the heart that made it. 

Ever since, when I walk in and see my mug hanging on the wall where I go to write my weekend medicine, I feel a tinge of what I imagine honored athletes feel seeing their jersey hung in the rafters of where they have done their best work. 

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“My Dearest Pete …,”

The note Morgan handed to me was from Emma. Not my Emma, but Emma who works at the coffee shop. She started while she was still in high school and still works weekends while going to the local college. 

“It breaks my heart to inform you that I accidentally dropped your mug and broke it ….” 

“I need a minute,” I told Morgan, and took a few steps back to read the rest, in which Emma profusely apologized, begged forgiveness and even offered to pay for a replacement. 

She signed her note, “You’re most loyal and sorrowful barista, Emma.”

Which had me smiling by the time I looked up … appreciating that my Thursday morning had just found its shim.

By which I mean the note, and the heart that made it. 

 “She’s so upset,” Morgan said.

I asked when Emma worked next. 

“Saturday,” Morgan said.

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Saturday morning I made sure to arrive when the coffee shop opened at 8:30. 

Emma was at the register, Liam at the espresso machine. 

“I’m so sorry … I’ll buy you a new one,” Emma said as soon as she saw me. 

I just shook my head.

“At least let me buy you your cortado.” 

As Liam went to fire up the espresso machine, I stopped him. 

And handed Emma a note.

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“My dearest Emma, 

You must know that there are few things in this world that I appreciate more than a hand-written note. 

Reading yours brought a spark of joy to my Thursday. 

If my beloved mug had to meet an untimely demise, I am grateful that it was at the hands of one who poured so many hearts into it.

You will not only appreciate that it was Liam who consulted with my daughter (whose name is also Emma) on the exact mug to buy me for my birthday two years ago (which will forever be my favorite birthday present ever), but that, when she did so, it came in a set of two.

So I commission the enclosed to your care … on one condition. 

That you pour the first heart into it.”

She looked up from my note smiling the way her note made me smile. 

“I always carry a spare,” I said, handing over the ‘Emma 2’ … for official christening. 

She asked Liam if they could switch places. 

“Only fitting,” he said. 

“I don’t know,” Emma said sheepishly. “My latte art has been a little shaky … I’m out of practice,” she said. 

“I know you have it inside you … and I mean that sincerely,” said Liam the Wise. 

Told ya’ he’s the Oracle. 

She took her time and filled it above the rim, trusting in the properties of surface tension and gravity to do their good jobs … so she could do hers. 

It’s always magic to me how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I like how they are forgiving that way.

How the universe allows our fragile cups to be filled beyond their measure.  

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Postcards

Small Things ….

Paused for a coffee on my way to a morning medical appointment. 

Got in line behind a guy in the middle of picking out a bunch of stuff. 

“Gimme a couple of those, and one of those,” he said, pointing at the pile of yesterday’s pepperoni rolls they keep on the counter, and the breakfast burritos warming in a case next to the register. 

Looked to me like he was being spontaneously thoughtful. Like it had just occurred to him to pick up some goodies to surprise whoever his peeps were.

I’m a sucker for spontaneous thoughtfulness. 

After confirming that he meant ‘two’ for ‘a couple,’ the young person behind the counter reached for the pepperoni rolls.

After she picked one up, I heard her say softly to herself, “Oh, that one’s small,” then watched as she put the pepperoni roll she had in her hand back … and pull another out from the bottom of the pile.

The guy didn’t see her do it. 

Had already skooched to the side to wait for his stuff.

Struck me as both the smallest thing and the biggest thing.  

When it was my turn in line, I told her I appreciated how she put the small one back. 

She smiled. 

“Yeah, I can’t help it,” she said. “I always think about what I’d want, you know?”

I wanted so much to say, “Me too!” 

Because that’s how I think about things … though I don’t sell yesterday’s pepperoni rolls for a living.  

“Even when I pick something out of the case, I try and look for the ‘good’ ones,” she added.

What I loved about how she put it is that I knew exactly what she meant, without having any idea exactly what she meant.

Just that it had nothing to do with whether anybody else noticed.

I don’t know why something so small that wasn’t meant to be seen moved me so much. 

I mean … if they keep sellin’ like yesterday’s hot cakes, somebody might eventually get the pepperoni runt, … so does it even matter? 

I dunno. 

Maybe because it’s been my experience that how you do the small things is how you do the big things. 

Or maybe I just need reminded sometimes that there are others out there trying to look for the good ones, too. 

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People / Places, Postcards

An Incomplete List of Things That Got Me Through the Last Week of F*cking January, 2026

While scrolling my Monday in-box last week, I was gifted language for something I have felt but never had words for. 

When I stumble across such treasure, I try and make a point to write the word down in my journal.

I think of it like picking up seashells along a beach. 

The word came courtesy of Creative Mornings, whose January theme came courtesy of their Tehran chapter. 

I’ve copied their explanation here. Don’t think they’d mind. 

کورسو or Koorsoo (pronounced Koor·Soo) is a Farsi word meaning a glimmer of hope.

“In our darkest hours, when everything seems to have dimmed, sometimes a light remains—not bright, not certain, but real. That is Koorsoo—a faint glimmer of hope that dares to survive. Koorsoo is not about triumph or clarity; it is about the fragile yet unwavering light that keeps us going. A glance, a memory, a word—small things that prevent collapse. It represents the quiet resilience of those who continue in spite of the weight, who believe without guarantee. In a world that often normalizes despair, Koorsoo is a rebellion—soft, but profound. It reminds us: even the smallest spark matters.” 

My Monday morning — by which I mean my January — needed that reminder …  

… almost but not quite as much as I needed caffeine driving up Main Street Thursday morning before work. 

Anymore, I find my days need some back-up … which is among the reasons I collect seashells … metaphorically keep them in my pockets … so I can run my hands over their contour to remember, to remind myself.

Sometimes when I get to the small coffee shop when it opens, the sun’s still low enough in the sky to bathe the interior bright. 

After giving my eyes a couple seconds to adjust, I noticed their humble logo reflected on an interior wall, crisp as a projection.

A fragile yet unwavering light.  

I asked Fiona if they knew when they built the place that the sun would reflect like that, or if that was just a happy accident. 

She wasn’t sure, but said it’s her favorite thing. 

If we only knew how our light reflects sometimes.

After paying for my double cortado to go, I handed her a little extra cash for a pay-it-forward.

Spoke aloud the names aloud of a handful of humans who had recently reserved some kind thoughts in their day for me.  

If we only knew how our light reflects sometimes.

Sitting here with my Sunday morning … a new month turned over … still needing reminders … still collecting sea shells … still remembering the importance of sharing our koorsoo with the world around us. 

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