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LAST NOVEMBER, I CELEBRATED 15 years since my last Mexican mocha. It had been my drink of choice—always 16 ounces, 20 if I could get it. And whipped cream. Oh, the whipped cream. I remember the moment I turned. A friend took me to a little spot down the street that had just opened in a space that used to be a hair salon. "They roast the beans right there," he told me. "You've gotta try their coffee, in a mug, black. Trust me." I had never tasted coffee like that before. It was pleasant and smooth without cream, sweet without sugar. No melodrama intended—it was life-changing. I think about life-changing often, and when I'm feeling particularly introspective, I wonder why so few of my friends have fallen for this particular brand of coffee—the one that gave me my first a-ha moment, and continues to dazzle me every time I drink it. They enjoy it well enough to have it with me, but they almost always add milk and sugar, and few ever share my exclusive prefer- ence for it. Much of the reason I was able to shift my cof- fee habits owed to the reality that, at the time, there wasn't anything more valuable in my life than the coffee I drank. (Yes, I said that.) I was in college. The focus on my education allowed me to shed everything else around me. My family and friends understood when I wasn't immediately available. My bookstore job was disposable. All I had to do was attend class and study at my favorite coffee bar. This new cof- fee became a small luxury for me. Sometimes it was the motivation I needed to push through 200 pages of required reading. I tried bringing this coffee to my family. Dad said it tasted like coffee, and that he still pre- ferred mochas. When he heard the price per pound, he had to leave the room. At that time in his life, there was no room for specialty coffee. He worked 60 hours a week because he had to cover his children's tuition. My mother liked it and followed her discerning palate. She had space in her life for coffee. Her children were leaving the nest and, for the first time in 25 years, mornings belonged to her. My grand- mother, raised on watery coffee, said that we all drank our coffee too strong for her. My friends at college just didn't enjoy spending time in cafés as much as I did. These were their experiences. 77 www.baristamagazine.com