My kitchen feels like a branch of Starbucks, full of twentysomethings slumped around, sipping my French roast from giant cups
Coffee drinking is one of those habits that signifies adulthood, the flat white, cappuccino or espresso clutched in your hand a marker of being a grownup at last. So, now that all my children are adult enough to be coffee drinkers, technically they should have left home. Except, of course, they haven’t.
I have one coffee a day, at about 11am. The ritual is more special and precious to me because of its rarity. I like a medium-strength blend and make it in an Italian macchinetta on the stove, mixing it with hot oat milk and drinking it from my favourite mug.
