From this day forward, the ritual of the walk in the park with a frappé became the cornerstone of my mental health routine. I’m not saying that coffee is at the center of my daily life, but my route and activities are organised so that I can pass by places where they prepare it “properly.”
Drinking ice frappé is the latest coping mechanism I’ve developed for dealing with life’s difficulties. I say mechanism, not addiction, because who’s to say where the line is, exactly?
It was perfectly innocent in the beginning. Shortly after the second baby was born and the initial hormonal storm had passed, one April morning in the park I decided to treat myself to a coffee. But what could it be?
In my high school years, frappés were very much a thing, so we spent an indecent amount of time in cafés where they would serve them to us in cool tall glasses with heaps of ice. In the decades that followed, however, I had ditched the frappés and stuck to espresso.
But this youthful memory came to me on that day and I decided: I’ll have a frappé. Black, because I avoid milk, sugar-free, because I avoid sugar.
I was pleased with the taste, as well as the texture – the foam was soft and fluffy and contrasted with the cold liquid. However, I only realised how happy I was with the decision after about twenty minutes, when, while walking slowly along an empty alley, with an inspiring podcast in my earbuds, I suddenly felt as if someone had lifted the veil from my eyes.
The green of the trees came to life, the otherwise cloudy day appeared enveloped in soft light, and the aroma in the air became rich and delicious. I felt my pulse quicken, and my thoughts raced in ever higher velocity. It felt like being a feather perched on a cloud, and I could swear that all was right with the whole world.
From this day forward, the ritual of the walk in the park with a frappé became the cornerstone of my mental health routine. I’m not saying that coffee is at the center of my daily life, but my route and activities are organised so that I can pass by places where they prepare it “properly.”
For it turned out that I have very specific requirements for the content and preparation of my favorite drink. My order is long and I deliver it with the monotony and precision of a well-programmed robot. It doesn’t matter if it’s a place where they already know me well – they are still treated to the recital. And even if they see me from afar and shout “Should I prepare your frappé?”, I hurry in to say my piece.
I’m not saying that I’m particularly obsessed, but if I don’t get it exactly the way I like it, namely: black, without sugar, with LOTS of foam and two or three ice cubes, there’s a chance that my whole mood for the day will be ruined. In the winter, I was forced to carry ice in a jar, because in many places, stingy owners turn off the ice machines to save a few measly kilowatts.
Ultimately, neither the cold, nor the heat, nor all the babies and their older brothers – nothing can stand between me and my daily dopamine in a cup. I leave the kids waiting for me in the rain while, safe and dry, I list my requirements and await the order. If we find ourselves in an uncharted territory, I drag them for miles until I find a “supplier”.
When I enter an unfamiliar coffee shop, I am fully conscious of the fact that these people don’t have the slightest idea what’s coming. And in the best case scenario, we complete the transaction without them realizing that they’ve been dealing with the most hardcore frappé drinker in town. Often, however, the situation is more complicated.
Mostly because, it seems, there are no more than three people in my city who drink black frappé, and these people have never visited the places I find myself in. There, the sellers go into a slight panic, since they don’t have a price for black frappé, only for white. Or they might even state in the most serious tone:
“We don’t have black frappé – only white.”
Which sounds like they only have pizza with everything and you can’t order a Margherita.
All these sacrifices and troubles, however, are worth it. As a result, I am much more energetic, motivated and cheerful, and even if one day I feel a little lazy to go out, I say to myself “why not get myself a frappé and off into the park with the stroller” and any laziness instantly leaves my body.
I ignore the elements of addiction quite successfully and I think I have reached the maximum dose of two frappés a day. And if you see my leg vibrating – I don’t know what you’re talking about.