Letter to myself at Coco et Olive

Dear me,

Thank you for leaving work so decisively for your lunch hour and driving like a mad woman to Coco et Olive. There is something so beautiful about knowing exactly what will give you pleasure, reprieve, salvation – and when.

This short americano with 1/4 pack of raw sugar and your hand wrapped around spotless white porcelain are just what you needed. It’s steady, certain and knowing, a kind of love passed to you across so many kitchen tables.

Natural light pours into the cafe and winks at you as if to say so many more beautiful things are in store. Your roasted tomato, goat cheese and basil quiche with side salad is only one of them. The dill is a subtle surprise. Then a homemade two-bite espresso brownie arrives at your table. The icing slips off like silk sheets.

It’s simple to find pleasure when you look for it. Today its been traded for $12.49, food made with care and time to yourself. Your Ikea work desk is not this charming red table with its curvy, vintage legs. Try to remember that. Demand more from your daily menu.

Oh, and please stop eating slimy soup from the troughs at the IGA across from your office. I like you better than that.



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