I’m a sucker for a fancy coffee. Made with exact measures of pedigreed beans and milk, by the skilled hand of some serious, stylin’ gentleman or lady, on an espresso machine with a name like an Italian sports car, served in a little glass cup, in a Danish modern setting.
It’s a real and necessary treat, especially when your day thus far has been spent trying to get a baby who is not a toddler, but a runner, to put some pants on.
All my other food purchases are nothing but sensible, I swear. I have those bulk bin codes memorized. And some afternoons, I do try to make a fancy-ish coffee at home.