My cup of coffee

I get excited about small things in life. Like this red cup of coffee that I don’t need but I sorely wanted. Because it reminds me of my home, my childhood. The fact that we could not afford Nescafé when we were growing up, and so we drank Bru. And how my father convinced us, that Bru is “our taste”, our coffee.

But then I grew up. I learnt that Bru is Bru and Nescafé is Nescafé. And no Bru wasn’t our taste, it was our limit.

And then one day I moved to the US. I worked hard, and I progressed in life. Because I never accepted that make believe notion that Bru was our taste. I bought Nescafé. And I enjoyed it. It was richer and bolder in taste. Less chicory, more caffeine.

So I told my dad. I have switched to Nescafé. He said, he had too and he enjoys it. We had progressed.

And then I started traveling. The world was my oyster. I started drinking coffee from different parts of the world. I started to really enjoy a good cup of Illy. And I told my dad, that I have moved on. I am now enjoying Illy, and I drink it black.

I asked him why did he tell us that Bru was “our taste”. He said, because he had under estimated how far his bird will fly.

The bird flew far, Papa. You just didn’t live long enough to see her soar.

Living within means should not define you. You can live on a cup of Bru, while your taste is that of Illy. Have good taste, but know what you can afford.

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