A slurry of ice and coffee— the Frappuccino friday’s where my dad would bring one or two back and split it amongst the four of us at home. I remember the bitter tang of the coffee with the undercut of sugar.

Outside of those Friday’s, I’d occasionally steal sips of the lattes my parents would make. My mom topped the latte foam with cinnamon sugar.

The croaked call of the milk frother doubled as a rooster call on the weekends. I’d wake up to that sound and pad downstairs to peek in the pink Tulip bakery box and start the days slowly nibbling on a raspberry jam-filled sugar cookie.