Latte Art Can Save the World

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A friend recently asked why I don’t teach something more important than coffee. Kinda harsh, but they had a point. It’s a thought I’ve had more than once in my career: The world is ending, and I’m over here teaching people how to make pretty pictures in their lattes. Could I not better serve my community by teaching children how to read, lobbying for a cause, or at the very least, curing cancer?

Every weekend for the last two and a half years, I and a small team of baristas hosted public classes in a 700-square-foot room in Greater Goods Coffee’s East Austin cafe. The students ranged from tech bros to musicians to 60-year-old mothers and their adult sons, most of whom got into coffee as a pandemic hobby; when their favorite cafe closed indefinitely, it was time to learn how to do it themselves. Some bought french presses, others splurged on fancy espresso machines and James Hoffman videos, but all were fascinated by the coffee world and the secrets buried deep in its many rabbit holes.

Luckily, you don’t have to be an engineer to make a cappuccino (though weirdly enough, many software engineers are super into coffee). Brewing is intuitive, but latte art is a different beast. You can only learn it by doing, and nobody’s good at it the first time. It’s kind of like kissing; you could read hundreds of articles, watch TikToks, and practice on your fingers, but nothing compares to being two inches away from your eighth-grade crush.

Latte art (or lart, as the industry folk say) requires vulnerability and courage. Milk steaming is scary. It’s loud, the pitcher gets hot as hell, and you hold it with your bare hands. Everything happens really fast and there’s not much time for readjusting, so it’s crucial to put the wand (and your mind) in a good starting position before you begin. No distracted steaming is the law in the lab. As long as you pay attention, you’ll make good milk. Lart is just a matter of learning the technique, trusting the process, and putting the reps in.

Class begins with a little show and tell: Purge the steam wand, position it slightly off-center in a pitcher of milk, the tip just beneath the surface. Turn the knob to start the steam, then gently lower the pitcher until you hear a hissing noise, introducing air bubbles to create microfoam for a few seconds. Once the pitcher is warm to the touch, lift it to submerge the wand again, heating the milk to around 140F as it spins in a vortex. When it’s too hot to touch, turn it off, set the pitcher down, and wipe and purge the wand.

I gently swirl my pitcher, then pour the warm milk into a double espresso. The class huddles in. A thin stream dives under the crema and around the circumference of a ceramic mug. Once two-thirds full, I pause for a quick inhale, then pour low and heavy. A white bean shape spreads across the surface, billowing as I tilt the cup back toward the floor. When the cup is parallel, I slow the stream to the width of a spaghetti noodle. Seconds before it spills over, I lift the pitcher and strikethrough to make a heart.

The students shake their heads in disbelief. They don’t think they’re capable - at least, not yet.

Carlos, a Google UX designer, volunteers to go first. He’s been tinkering with a Gaggia Classic all pandemic but hasn’t gotten the hang of the whole latte art thing.

“Still tastes good without it,” he says, filling a periwinkle pitcher with whole milk.

The rest of the class nods in agreement. It’s true enough; a latte without lart still tastes like a latte, but I’d argue that a crisp rosetta could quite literally change the trajectory of someone’s life. That’s what happened to me, anyway.

He purges any leftover milk from the last steam, then positions the wand as demonstrated. He’s nervous. The lab machine is much faster than the one he has at home. Once the heat is on, he only has about two seconds to aerate the cold milk.

“You got this, I’m right here to help,” I say. “I won’t abandon you.”

He starts the steam, then freezes. Almost unconsciously, I take hold of the pitcher. Together, we lower it until we hear the soft paper-tearing sound of aeration. He resists my help at first (most of them do), then loosens up a bit. This is why he came, after all. When the pitcher is warm to the touch, we lift to continue heating without adding any more air. The milk whirlpools around the perimeter, and I let go.

“When it’s too hot, turn it off,” I advise. Count one Mississippi, then he spins the knob to stop the steam. There’s an audible sigh of relief as he sets the jug on the counter. The rest of the class flocks in like kindergarteners to a baby chick.

“Wait!” I slice the air with my arms. “Don’t even think about it till the wand is clean.”

We giggle as Carlos folds a black microfiber onto the wand and purges. No crusty steam wands allowed is another golden rule.

His milk is pristine. If we’re looking for a silky texture like melted marshmallows, light a campfire and call him Willy. There are a few small bubbles, so we tap the pitcher on the counter to pop them.

“Look at this frickin’ milk!” I exclaim. We ooh and aah and congratulate Carlos on a job well done. The hardest part is over.

~~~

My first time steaming milk was a total disaster. I used way too much, then steamed it to oblivion until it scalded and bubbled up over the sides of the pitcher, covering my apron (and the cute barista trainer’s Docs) with a barrage of white specs. Despite my humiliation, I tried again. He held the pitcher with me this time, guiding my movements while I memorized the mechanics. And it was better, then worse when I was on my own, then better again.

After a few shifts, I was pouring blobs and onions and Jackson Pollocks. An impatient and determined student, I became obsessed. I watched videos on my breaks, fought to pour every hot mocha (for contrast), and balanced my iPhone on the La Marzocco to film my pours and analyze the instant replay.

Then, on October 5, 2015, I finally made something I was proud of. I was going for a tulip, but the picture still saved on my phone looks more like a clove of garlic. Still, it was the first bit of evidence of a journey I’d only just begun, the journey I’m still on today.

~~~

At the front of the classroom, I pour water back and forth from a pitcher to a mug to demonstrate good pouring technique. High and slow, then low and fast. The students mirror, hesitant to spill water on the concrete floor.

“This will become a river if we do it right,” I say. I tiptoe around the puddles to place my hands over theirs so they can feel the motions. It’s unnatural for most, but they learn quickly, and soon, it’s time to graduate to the real thing.

Lisa’s son-in-law bought her a seat in the class for Mother’s Day. Her Breville has an automatic frother, so even though she’s poured some decent hearts at home, she’s not used to steaming her own milk. I offer to do it for her, but she vehemently declines. She’s here to learn.

Her milk doesn’t come out great - it’s extra hot and way too foamy - but it’s nothing we can’t fix with a little texturing. She slams the pitcher on the counter, showering milk bubbles onto the black countertop.

“Pitcher transfer!” I exclaim, punctuating with the “pew pew pew” of an air horn to celebrate a good learning moment. We pour the frothy milk down the side wall of another pitcher, a nifty trick I picked up from a coffee friend at a throwdown, and give the milk a gentle wiggle side to side.

“This ain’t gonna be pretty,” she warns.

“Hey now,” I say. If she thinks like this, like it’s gonna suck, it probably will suck. But if she takes a deep breath and tells herself, “I’m a great barista and latte art is easy,” miracles happen. I’ve seen it.

She repeats the mantra, albeit with a tinge of sarcasm, then angles the mug toward the pitcher. She’s tense. Her elbow is lifted to eye level. Her tongue peeks out the side of her mouth, her turquoise beaded bangles tapping against the porcelain handle. After a theatrical deep breath, she pours a thin stream of milk into the espresso below, moving around in a circle with the utmost control.

“Nice control,” I offer. “Now pause here.”

The cup is two-thirds full. She tilts it further, almost spilling the liquid inside to get as close as possible to the surface, then makes landfall. The milk lays bright and white atop the crema, growing in size as she pours closer and faster until finally, it starts to spill off the back edge.

“Tilt back!” I say, and she does, then drags the pitcher in a hard, straight line across the mug. She has made something comically phallic, and she’s blushing.

“There we go!” The class applauds. It’s all part of the process.

~~~

After 10,000 hours of bar shifts, I feel pretty confident that I can pour a heart, tulip, rosetta, and swan, plus some variations on those themes with no trouble, but I still have my fair share of off-days. As I tell my students, latte art is 75% confidence.

So much of what happens on the surface of my cappuccinos is because of the story I’m telling myself that day about who I am, what I do, and what matters to me. If I’m feeling burnt out, lost, anxious, depressed, confused, lonely - chances are, my pours reflect that. They’re off-center, rushed, careless. Those are the days you’ll find me idling in front of an espresso machine, staring off into space, wondering why I still work in coffee and how, after eight years of this, I still suck at latte art.

But what if I saw those bad pours as an opportunity to be gentle to myself instead? What if that lopsided slowsetta is inviting me into the here and now, flagging me to flip the script? I may not be able to control my ripple base, but I can control how I think. I’m a great barista, and latte art is easy, I say to myself until it sticks. Another customer orders a hot mocha, and I can start fresh. When that heart is more symmetrical than the last, it feels like progress. I call the customer’s name and remember to be grateful for things as easy, simple, and lovely as latte art, especially when everything else is falling apart.

~~~

Back in the lab, the students take turns steaming and pouring as I offer words of encouragement. They get frustrated, but I won’t let them give up. Be nice to yourself, I remind them. You’re learning.

Over the next 90 minutes, the only thing that matters is that their abstract art turns into a blob, blob to butt, butt to penis and garlic and onion until finally, it's a heart. We’ll hoot and holler and take pictures for Instagram, then sip our masterpieces clean off the top. Everything is temporary.

By the end of it, we’re glowing. Yes, we’re over-caffeinated, but also proud and down-right giddy. I assign some homework (clean your steam wand, keep practicing, send pics) and prop open the door. I don’t know what happens once they leave the training lab, but I like to think that tomorrow morning, they’ll fire up their espresso machine, show themselves some T.L.C., then pour something magnificent and drink it dry.

Latte art is fun and hard and satisfying and fleeting. It’s something to look forward to, work on, and wonder about. It’s extra, and it’s a mirror. It is, after all, art. The lessons taught in the coffee classroom are about more than just symmetry and contrast; it’s about being brave and kind to yourself, trusting the process, building confidence. It’s about failing and getting back up on the machine again and again. All of this is important, whether you’re pouring a latte, saving the world, or both.

Latte Art Classes

Sound like fun? I teach private on-location coffee classes for individuals, small groups, and teams.

Learn more here.

Happiness is a Warm Mashed Potato

Is there anything in this world more splendid than a good batch of mashed potatoes? The pillowy softness, the gritty skin between teeth, a combination so heavenly even the pickiest eaters can’t refuse. They’re a holiday must-have, yet a cook-for-one rarity. But why not? Today is a perfectly good day as any to serve the potato mashed, I’d say. 

As a recovering carbophobe, I haven’t had many starches that didn’t also come with the caveat of a long run the next morning. For four years, that’s been my rule: you can have a bowl of pasta the night before anything over six miles. If you’re not running, you don’t need carbs. 

Listen, I’m not a doctor, but this is FAKE SCIENCE. This rule comes from mindless scrolling and countless hours of “what I eat in a day videos”. It’s staying up late googling “what’s the healthiest breakfast”. It’s buying expensive protein powders and calorie counter app subscriptions in a small effort to attain an impossible body type invented by a patriarchal, capitalist society. It’s a restrictive, judgemental, all-consuming way to live. And yet. I can hardly resist. 

It happens so fast sometimes I don’t even notice. I get hungry, so ridiculously hungry that it conquers me, and I panic. I worry that I haven’t eaten enough today, or that I’ve eaten too much, and I can’t think about what to eat now because I’m too hungry to think and I won’t make a good decision, so I might as well just eat all the day-old pastries in the kitchen at work but all that’s left is crusty plain croissants, so before I know it I’m in the protein bar aisle at H-E-B yet again, looking for something, ANYTHING, that vaguely reminds me of raw chocolate chip cookie dough, which is all I ever want anyway. 

All that being said, I am getting better. I’m working on it. I really don’t want to be a diet culture crony anymore. It’s boring and outdated. Anyone who’s anyone eats sourdough bread these days, and besides, I would rather invoke my consciousness to be more expansive, compassionate, and accepting of all bodies, including (especially) my own. A crucial part of that process is reintroducing foods that used to scare me. Like potatoes. 

#shotoniPhone lol

Today, I boil them. I usually chop my sweet potatoes into quarter-sized pieces and drown them in bubbling salted water until they’re penetrable with a salad fork. Then I strain them and eat them plain - no extra salt, no oil, no spices.

I’m not proud of this. I read enough New York Times Cooking to know this is a truly pathetic expression of the culinary arts. Humans are doing unthinkable things with potatoes, but not me. I’m still just flirting with the potato, trying to figure out if we can make things work again, playing it safe until I feel safe again. 

Mashed potato was a classic in my house growing up, a popular side to chicken breast and canned corn, which was the quintessential Haney meal. Sometimes my mom used Hungry Jack packets, but more often she’d fire up the hand mixer, the burnt smell of the winding (from overuse) mingling with Land O’Lakes and 2% milk. I matured into strong opinions about the cafeteria mashed potatoes, even stronger opinions about which relative should make them for Thanksgiving. The superior version, I believe, is skin-on and chunky, served as a large mound with a crater in the center, a slice of salted butter melting down and in. 

When I get a hit of potato now it’s like magic. I’m instantly elevated, energized, focused. I feel all juiced up, like myself on steroids. I can’t believe potatoes are legal, that’s how good I feel. It’s like anything you used to do as a kid but won’t let yourself do anymore for whatever silly adult reasons you made up in order to have another boring, conforming, carbless life. And you know what? Potatoes ARE good for you! They have like a gazillion nutrients! Eat the damn potato! And better yet, MASH IT. Why the hell not? I dare you to make a single mashed potato for yourself and I double dog dare you to like it. 

Every good mashed potato starts with butter and milk, but why not ghee and yogurt, if that’s what you have? Furthermore, why not olive oil and oat milk? Experiment. Go wild. It’s just one potato. You can always try again tomorrow. 

I really let my creative spirit drive the ship on this one and I encourage you to do the same. Something about the beauty of a boiled Japanese sweet potato sent me soaring into pure flow state, BAM-ing things like Emeril Lagasse into my T.J. Maxx saucepan. I want that for you, too. 

*A note from the chef: This recipe includes some hard-to-find ingredients that can easily be substituted. Any potato, any oil, and any vinegar should work perfectly fine. Sometimes I do this thing where I get really stoned and go to Whole Foods as self-care. That’s how I ended up with a Japanese sweet potato, ghee, and champagne vinegar. I will say if you can somehow get your hands on those things, it’s game over. I can 100% vouch for this version and these products because the synergy shocked and delighted me with its depth of flavor. I mean, it inspired me to write an entire blog post about mashed potatoes. Like, c’mon. Just try it if you can. 

P.S. I am not sponsored by any of the links, so literally no pressure

Ingredients

1 Japanese sweet potato

1 tbsp ghee

lil lemon zest 

1 garlic clove, minced 

splash of champagne vinegar 

lil bit of whole milk yogurt (i am addicted to this bulgarian yogurt) 

coriander or other bitter-ish herb 

salt

pepper

Directions

  1. In a pot or saucepan, bring water with a pinch of salt to a boil over high heat.

  2. Cut the potato into quarter-size pieces (leave skin ON for added nutrients, duh).

  3. Once the water is boiling, add potato and cook for 10-ish minutes, checking tenderness every so often with a fork.

  4. When potatoes are tender, use the lid of the saucepan to carefully dump out the water but not the potatoes (if you have a colander, do that, it’s probably easier).

  5. Roll the potatoes around in the saucepan to dry them, then lightly mash with a fork. Enjoy this. It’s gonna take a while but it is really satisfying. Don’t worry about mashing all the pieces right now, you’ll get ‘em later. 

  6. Add ghee, yogurt, zest, and a splash of vinegar to the pot.

  7. Stir to incorporate and do some more mashin’.

  8. Taste and add things! I added salt and pepper, more vinegar, and coriander because it was the most bitter spice in my cabinet. Also could see some fresh herbs working well in this, plus you get to enjoy those gorgeous flecks of green.

  9. Scoop out with an ice cream scoop and put on a plate. Create a divet in the center and top with ghee, butter, or gravy if you like that sorta thing. I don’t have a good recipe for that, but I trust you.

Restaurant Review: Fine Dining and Breathing at Cochineal

If you’re looking for a fancy birthday dinner in Marfa, your options are limited. There’s a couple of glorified hotel bars, Margaret’s (who boasts a $14 tuna melt), and I mean, you can always just get burritos. But then there’s Cochineal, a reservation-only restaurant by James Beard semifinalist Alexandra Gates. As long as you’re fully prepared to shell out some big buckaroonies, the words “reservation-only” and “James Beard” should make the decision a no-brainer. And speaking of decisions, the menu is entirely prix fixe, so you don’t have to make a single goddamn one!

Reservations are made via email with Jules. Upon confirmation, they’ll remind you that the meal consists of 5 - 7 courses spread out over 2.5+ hours, “like a leisurely dinner party”. You’ve never thought of yourself as the kind of person who would be invited to a dinner party in real life, so this is already feeling very fancy. Jules asks if you have any dietary restrictions and you say no, because you respect the culinary arts more than your digestive system.

 

We stroll into the garden patio at 5:05 p.m., five minutes early for our reservation, softly stoned and in that vacation kind of love, and are seated right away at one of about 15 empty tables outside. The chairs are metal and not comfortable at all; I regret not stealing a few throw pillows from the Airbnb for our asses (hindsight is 20/20). Our waiter Sean approaches in a knee-length skirt, a corduroy Western shirt, and hightop converse. This is not a uniform. He initiates our supper with a bottle of the finest bubbly water from Mexico. 

I am a firm believer that every meal should begin with some kind of carbohydrate primer, be it chips and salsa or, in this case, house heirloom grain bread with charred spring onion cultured butter, smoked trout rillette, and two radishes plucked from the Cochineal garden like two seconds ago, all paired with a refreshing grapefruit prosecco spritzer. I seriously can’t tell which is trout and which is butter just by looking at it, but I spread whatever’s in the cute little ceramic dish all over my slice. I think it’s butter, but Will tells me he definitely got the butter, and it’s not that I don’t trust him but I am the one who made the reservation… Anyway, he had the butter. The trout thing reminds me of chicken salad from Graul’s - kinda watery, lemony, herby. The butter is clearly charred, if nothing else. Unfortunately, the bread is not warm. 

The second dish is simply called “scallop”. When it appears it is, in fact, a single scallop, placed in the corner of a huge plate. A nebula of garden pistou weaves around it, plus fava beans from Ft. Davis, a couple of pine nuts, and the teensiest edible flowers. Scallop slices with a fork and glides over either side of my tongue, silky and slightly blackened, soon drenched by a French white wine with a very long name, lively and crisp. As we scrape the last bits of pistou, an older couple is seated at the table directly next to us. They’re smartly dressed and I think they must be professors or, at the very least, high school English teachers. 

Wild-hunted RAW AF nilgai (pardon my butter-smudged camera)

Next is the wild-hunted nilgai, which, thank god, all four of us have to Google. Nilgai are deer-ish antelopes, native to India but released in South Texas in the 1930s as game animals. Here it’s presented as a circular patty, not unlike a sausage, partnered with early summer truffle, creme fraiche, and a lion’s mane fritter. Whenever I buy psilocybin microdosing pills, my dealer packages them in a Ziploc labeled “Lion’s Mane”, so I consider myself a friendly ally to the mushroom pancake. The antelope is surprisingly cold, like, almost frozen. It’s oily but light, soft except the occasional icy bit. It’s also raw, and I guess that’s allowed? I’ve never had anything like it, which is precisely what I came for.

While we’re waiting on a wild-hunted boar, a group of five women in jean cutoffs and white cowboy boots strut through the patio and into the restaurant. They emerge ten seconds later, ushered out by the hostess, who is trying her best to explain they’re reservation-only. 

“We’re just here for a drink,” says one in sunglasses. “There’s, like, no one here”. 

“We’ll be sooo quick,” another chimes in. Idiots, I think. I made my reservation a month ago! I briefly enjoy my prowess over the booty-shorted women until, to my absolute dismay, they are seated and supplied with a round of pink cocktails. 

A wild-hunted boar schnitzel with blackberry-mezcal compote appears with a smokey blackberry spritz. I am not impressed with the blackberry-on-blackberry pairing, but maybe I’m just mad about the bachelorette party over there without a reservation. Anyway, the boar is reminiscent of chicken fried steak; it’s tough and crispy and picked at. If this menu were a setlist, they’d be playing some new, obscure, experimental song and half the audience is heading to the bar for another drink. That is until the band starts a familiar riff that demands absolute attention: goat cheese. We flock to the stage. A firm charred slice swims in an asparagus veloute. Fresh spears provide a necessary crunch, and the whole thing tastes like spring and sea salt. 

At this point, we’re soaring. A few more tables have migrated around us and the sun’s starting to fade through the trees. We grab each other’s hands across the table. We giggle. It’s our birthday and we’re so full. We’re talking about the moon and the universe when Sean brings us bison, the singer’s last song. 

Bison baby!

The medium-rare cut is the size of a baby’s fist and rests on a spoonful of salvitxada, a Catalonian barbecue sauce. A charred spring onion is curled up on top, a cheerful callback to the bread from before. Beside it, scattered marigolds. All of it is elevated by a round and full house red, custom-made and absolutely divine. We eat and drink slowly, savoring each fleeting moment. 

I believe every great restaurant is a microcosm of its restroom, so I excuse myself to size up Cochineal once and for all. I pass the hostess stand and the open kitchen to a single occupied door across from the kitchen exit. I stand in the hallway for a few seconds before realizing I'm totally in the way, but soon a gray-haired dude opens the door while buckling his belt. We make awkward eye contact and I scoot past him. 

It’s dark in there, much darker than the rest of the place, and I can’t figure out the lock on the door (luckily I wore a bodysuit to my birthday dinner, so I have to get completely naked to piss). I test the lock three times and undress. There’s spent incense on the shelf behind the toilet, which I hope is on some kind of checklist: “every hour on the hour, light a stick of Scarpa”. As I’m washing my hands with brown bottle soap, I gauge myself in the mirror of this dimly-lit bathroom. It’s not as nice as I thought it’d be, but I’m glowing. 

The premeditated encore is, of course, our birthday surprise. Sean presents not one but two small cakes on wooden platters, each guarded with a lit tea candle. We make our separate wishes and start carving our vanilla sponges, dressed with blackberry compote, mascarpone, and lemon curd. It’s sweet but not too sweet, and reminds me of a childhood friend who used to make lemon bars for fun at age 15. I miss her vaguely, the idea of her deeply. 

Will being all cute next to the telescopes

Will surrenders his fork after a few bites and heads to the restroom. While he’s gone, I eat as much of the mascarpone as humanly possible. It’s acidic, creamy, and fluffy, the sponge dry in comparison. The tart compote stings and sizzles on my tongue. By the time he returns, my cake is entirely robbed of its accouterments. Sean comes to check on us and gracefully takes our surprises away. We order our after-dinner drinks: a digestif for Will, and an espresso for me. I’m nervous about my choice given that I make espresso for a living and have very high standards, but we’re heading to the McDonald Observatory in thirty minutes for the Star Party and I really don’t want to fall asleep in the car. 

Will’s amaro is syrupy and bitter and exactly what the doctor ordered. The espresso, on the other hand, is deprived of crema and assisted by two sugar cubes which it desperately needs. It’s hollow and lacks depth, perhaps an old roast date or coffee left in the hopper too long, still stretched to a 1:2 ratio. I briefly consider offering some free advice to whoever’s in charge of coffee service, but I’ve had too much to drink and besides, I’m off the clock. We pay the bill (which is not cheap, but is, I think, worth it) and walk around the block. The desert settles into a new shade of lavender. 

A few items on pumping gasoline:

  1. I tell the machine my debit card is a credit card. I do this because it makes me feel safe. I also do this because it feels a little bit bad, and I like that.

  2. I, for one, would rather die than pay inside. I pay at the pump and I decide when it stops. If I land on an even number, then I’ll have good luck for the rest of the day. I will not spend more than $15.00.

  3. The pump asks me to “lift the handle”. I don’t know what it wants from me. I put the nozzle into my car hole. When I go to pull the trigger, I realize I need to select a flavor of gas. I choose the cheapest.

  4. Maria Menounos appears on a television screen built into the gas pump. She shows me a new recipe for watermelon salad. It’s just watermelons, feta, and basil. We live in a dystopian society.

  5. I know that I should sanitize my hands, but I don’t. I know I should have hand sanitizer in my car, but I don’t. I’m reading a book to cure an undiagnosed eating disorder. The book suggests the following exercise, filled and filed for today’s drama:

    I want hand sanitizer in my car. I wish I had hand sanitizer in my car. But right now I don’t. What am I going to do with that?

We're All Friends Here

My best friend moved back to her hometown. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. She’s been back and forth in the last few months while a family member is in the hospital, returning to Austin every other Monday a little less energized, a little more homesick.

I told her I was proud of her decision, and I am. She’s always been a homebody, from her thrifted batas to her fully stocked refrigerator to her flourishing house plants. Although she made a home here in the state capital, her heart was set on Mission.

The way she talked about that small town at the southern tip of Texas, I must’ve been as good as Oz. So a few months after we met, we followed the yellow brick road (US-281) so I could meet her family.

She was lighter there, a glowier version of the lantern girl I first met at the cafe where we both worked. I was introduced to every barista, cashier, and mailman in town like I was a celebrity, and folks treated me like family just for being Emily’s friend. A few days later, I wrote “Emily from the Valley”. 

She has an appreciation for tradition and community that I idolize, but do not possess. I ran away from home, whereas she was dragged by scholarships and an older-by-a-minute twin sister. She looks out for people - a certified “mom-friend” - no matter who you are or where you come from, you’re welcome at her apartment.

We first bonded over our love for performance. We’re both theater-kid-turned-baristas, both longing for any stage that reminds us of the neon lights of the high school auditorium. We scratched the itch with jobs in the service industry (which can feel a lot a shitty ensemble role) and Emily did not blend into the chorus.

She was everyone’s favorite barista. She laughed at everyone’s jokes, and BIG. She remembered your name, and never made you feel guilty for not remembering hers, or for mistaking her for her twin sister. Sometimes she’d sit in the cafe after her shift to help a customer with a breakup or an existential crisis. Customers would text her to see if she was working, or to see if she was free to babysit that Friday night. Working with Emily was the best, and not just because the tips were good. She was the kind of barista that reminded me why I got into coffee in the first place: these mother heckers look like they’re having way too much fun. 

—

People come and go out of our lives. I know this is true because I have watched plenty of sitcoms. Some of the best characters leave after the first season, or maybe just a few episodes. Those people still count. Those people still get memes.

I met a guy at a karaoke bar on the fourth of July that told me what his tattoo meant. It was an arrow with a pine tree at one end (or something like that, I truthfully can’t remember) and he described it as a metaphor for the people in your life, coming and going.

“Everyone on your tree starts as a leaf,” he said. “There are some leaves that become stumps and limbs, but everyone starts as a leaf, and some leaves just fall off and don’t become anything.” (Now that I’m writing this out, I’m thinking he was probably very drunk, and I don’t think that’s how trees work, but all that to say, Emily is probably a root or a stump or something, in this metaphor.)

If there’s anything good to come out of Emily moving, it’s that I won’t be spending as much money. No more spontaneous late nights at June’s, no more ice cream sandwiches at Laundrette. I won’t have much of a reason to go to the Meteor, because I only like the Meteor when Emily makes me feel like I’m on top of the world at the Meteor. We won’t be staying at the 4-star Carpenter Hotel on her birthday, even though we always said we would.

——

Of the five girls in my elementary school clique, I was the only one zoned for Bel Air Middle School. I was shitting myself (literally) over the fact that I’d have to make all new friends, and the stress manifested itself into a mysterious stomach illness that would send me to the doctor’s office every August from the 6th to the 10th grade.

I made a few new friends, but the next year the boundaries changed again, and I had to start over. That’s when I met Samantha. Like all of my best female friendships, we hated each other at first. We only softened to one another once we discovered we secretly bullied the same people, though I’m not proud of it.

On top of her sophisticated sense of humor, Samantha was the child of an older set of parents with a collection of vinyl records and classic literature. She was the second child of Richard and Laura, a newborn when they lost their first daughter to cancer at 17 or so. This phantom sister hung in photographs, keeping close watch on the upright piano and the framed paintings as we laid on the couches binging episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

There was also a half-sister that lived in the basement with a 3-year-old son. This was Richard’s daughter from a previous marriage. When Samantha’s bedroom was upstairs, we played ukulele and illegally downloaded the Scrubs and Grey’s Anatomy soundtracks. When her half-sister moved in with a boyfriend, Samantha took over the basement and we’d stay up late for SNL, watch episodes of Girls, and talk late into the night about masturbation and our lesbian friends. 

Samantha’s laugh was timid and uncontrollable. During an assembly at the Holocaust Museum, she totally lost it when a singer forgot the words to the National Anthem. We were both banished to the hallway, where we wrung out the rest of our giggles. When she was embarrassed by her laughter, which was often, she’d put a porcelain hand over her mouth to cover her silver-wired teeth.

Come to think of it, the only thing I really remember about my childhood friends is their laughter. Jess was melodic and jolly. Erin had a Shaggy-like laugh that rendered her eyes tiny slivers behind her round-rimmed glasses. Gracie had the laugh everyone laughed about, a silent vibration that ravaged her entire body and sent us gasping for air. Funny what your memory clings to.

Samantha moved to New York City for college. We hung out a few times during breaks, but each semester our lives drifted further and further in opposite directions. The full stop came around the 2016 election, for reasons I can’t fully remember but I’m 99% sure were something stupid I said. I’ve tried to reach out, but never got a response. Eventually she blocked me and I honestly forgot about that until this blog post. People come and go. 

—-

I’m starting to think my pursuit of lifelong female friendship is unrealistic. When I see a group of 70-something women in sensible shoes speed walking through the mall - that’s us in 50 years! - I can’t imagine my own version. I can’t see myself and an old friend setting up a stand at the flea market, driving out to Fredericksburg for a Wednesday wine tour, or taking a girls trip to Punta Cana, wide-brimmed sun hats barely fitting in the cabin doors of a Southwest flight.

How do they do it? I bet they talk on the phone instead of text. I bet they’re excruciatingly honest. I bet they know when to apologize and when to let it go. I guess it’s about driving miles to their apartment, however far, to kill a flying cockroach. I guess it’s about showing up, unannounced, and lingering for hours. There should be long conversations, and wine, and laughing and crying, and a healthy amount of shittalking.

And the nomination for best original impression goes to…

I’m house sitting for someone with an Emmy. Of course, when I saw it, I immediately picked it up with reckless abandon; it’s slightly heavier than I imagined, but an appropriate weight, I think, for such a prestigious piece of whatever it’s made of. I’d like to thank the Academy! And Lio, the long-faced wolfish dog with whom I am cohabitating for the next four days. 

I signed up for Rover when I first moved to Austin because I really needed the money. These days I do it mostly for pleasure. I get to sleep in linen sheets, clean my butt with rosewater wipes, and use knives that cut sweet potatoes like warm butter. If I’m really lucky, I might get to see an Emmy up close. And I guess hanging out with a dog is kinda cool, too.

In preparation for this staycation, I picked up two new books: Michelle Zauner’s Crying in H Mart (finally), and Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror. I spent 45 blissful minutes in BookPeople, picking things up and putting them back down, just like the good ol’ days. I would’ve taken the full hour, but for some reason I always need to poop in bookstores and I’d rather die than ask for directions to the bathroom. 

I’m usually reading one, two, or three books at a time, and all of those voices coagulate in my head to form a writing voice that is never truly my own; this is the voice I’m using right now, a voice I would certainly butcher if ever asked to, oh I don’t know, read this blog to a room full of adoring fans. 

I think I’m at the stage in life where I can recognize what’s good, but I don’t exactly understand how to be good. Sometimes I think good things are just true things. If something is real, how can it be wrong… right? I’m really sitting at someone else’s kitchen table, I’m really thinking about eating the other half of this sweet potato, and I really should take this dog for a walk. That’s all good. 

People say the best way to get good at things is to imitate the people you admire. That’s why I know every word to every Paul Simon song, and why I have a pullulating collection of books of essays by women. I’m decent at impressions, but I’m also getting impatient. When do I get my OWN voice? And when do I find out whether or not I end up with an Emmy?! 

Last night some friends hosted a show in their backyard warehouse. T read some poems and prose, “more like a speech” he said, to open. I found myself listening closely, tasting each word at first, but soon found myself instead thinking only of myself; how my words don’t sound like his, how his words are good and different than mine, how I can write a little more like him, how that might make our mutual friends talk to me a little longer between sets, how I shouldn’t have worn white pants on my period, how to check for a period stain without people noticing you’re checking for a period stain, how to drink quietly from a plastic water bottle, how to act less stoned, how to ask someone to tell me their name again even though I know I’ve met them before, how I’m wasting my energy thinking of myself while my friend shares his delicate musings on dams, on familiarity, on interior life.

The craziest thing to me is that these people, these real fucking artists, keep inviting me to things. I try too hard. I want too much. I have the thesaurus tab open, and I’m indubitably uncertain that I’m using any of these words correctly.

So who are you when no one is looking? I’m curled up in a ball, cradling a bag of Honey Sesame Cashews. And even still it’s a performance, because I feel uncontrollably compelled to post that shit on Instagram! If I would’ve known the first essay of Trick Mirror would deal with this subject directly, I probably would’ve gone back for the Beginner’s Guide to Intuitive Eating.