𝐃 𝐗 𝐌 𝐈 𝐍 𝐈 𝐐

image: The Death of Icarus, by Alexandre Cabanel

I made a few minor edits to this blog. One was redoing the tags, which had begun to feel unruly, almost accusatory. The remnants of what once lived here were too visible. In a moment of clarity, or maybe compulsion, I deleted it all. Order seemed necessary. So I gave it to myself.

The other update: I finally made it to forty-four coffee shops across California. That’s counting only the ones I visited with my husband. I didn’t keep track of the others. It didn’t seem necessary without him.

From last week:

• I think Mother Tongue might be one of my new favorites. It’s in the city, and I expected it to feel impersonal—anonymous, even—but it doesn’t. It reminds me of the kind of place people return to without ceremony. Like Kaleidoscope Coffee in Richmond, or the Starbucks I used to walk to in South San Francisco, back when I lived nearby and the sky was always some shade of gray.
• Lemon Girls is my girl. I’ve always loved that place. Whatever they hand me becomes my favorite coffee, without exception. They operate out of a community center next to a middle school, which feels improbable. But I keep going back. Each time I do, I want to again.
• Mountain Grounds was unexpected. We stopped there after our anniversary lunch because I was restless for coffee, and the oat milk vanilla latte turned out to be absurdly good.
• MY Coffee felt like a trick of the eye. A stone cabin in the woods, except not—this one’s in Berkeley, and it’s caffeinated to the point of absurdity. I walked out feeling like I could write a novel or climb something.

I’d been watching a little HBO Max, some Netflix. Mostly waiting to watch things with my husband. Right now, it’s Duster, some pulp series with desert towns and blood on the highway. Exploitation dressed up as prestige, but it works.

Twelve years in, and we’re still doing the same things we did when we started. Sitting on the couch, picking something to stream. Letting the hours pass together.