Message From The Latte Art

Elsbeth padded into her farm-styled kitchen early one autumn morning. Her eyes gazed out the window to the vast red and orange canvas of trees hugged by the morning golden rays.

How life seemed so simple at times. To others, she may look like a late-middle-aged woman starting her daily routine of fixing breakfast for the family dogs, herself, and her husband in a New England Colonial home.

Simple, ordinary, mundane, even.

Yet, Elsbeth was far from ordinary. You see, she had a gift that was passed down by her Nordic ancestors. In her family line, only females had the power to read into the future with the simple act of translating frothy milk latte art.

It's a powerful gift, one that comes with consequences.

Elsbeth didn't perform this act very often as she wanted to live in the moment and not have her interpretations of the latte milk persuade her to make decisions based on her readings. She was a black coffee drinker and enjoyed basking in the robust caramel-nutty java each morning. Only when life bubbled feelings of being stuck did she consider using her skill.

The pitter-patter of dog paws was the only sound in the seemingly tranquil kitchen. Elsbeth walked over to the corner of her kitchen and bent down to pull out a drawer that housed her vintage stovetop steamer.

An antique copper pot with a detailed etching of botanical design encircled the lustrous heirloom. Elsbeth carried the heavy pot to the gas stovetop and continued to stare down at the well-loved pot.

Elsbeth kept the pot hidden away for years. She had only used it once when her daughter, Beth, was pregnant, and Beth wanted to see how accurate it was in predicting whether she would have a boy or girl.

The frothy latte art and Elsbeth worked together and predicted correctly. Beth had a healthy baby girl. Elsbeth explained to Beth that the pot only did part of the job of predicting the future. It was up to the powers of Elsbeth's intuition and interpretation to do the readings.

When Elsbeth was very young, she enjoyed watching her mother read latte art, seeing the foamy milk bubbles come together to form a picture before they began to fade away and blend into the coffee. As a child, most of the readings were positive. What a great way to start the day with an exhilarating euphoria. However, if the latte art was an image of danger, the anxiety and worry clawed at the hearts of her family.

Elsbeth turned away from the stovetop and began to prepare the dogs' morning meal. Her memories flashed back to when she was sixteen, and her mother hadn't heard from her father for a few days. Her father worked as a ski patrol officer. There had been a heavy snowstorm in the mountains where they lived in Colorado.

Worry had won, and Elsbeth's mother had pulled the copper pot to whip up frothy milk for a latte art reading. Elsbeth and her mother sat watching as mountains bubbled together in the creamy mixture before melting apart into a mocha sea. Elsbeth's mother was relieved. She told Elsbeth that the mountains had shown that the weather was clearing up and her father would be home soon.

Hours later, police knocked on the door to inform Elsbeth and her Mom that her father had died in an avalanche and couldn't be found. He was lost in the white cap mountains. At that moment, Elsbeth realized that latte art could come with dire consequences, and if not read correctly, it could change a person's judgement.

Elsbeth's mother had broken that afternoon, cursing the latte art and pot to hell. She buried the pot in the yard and told Elsbeth to never speak of it again. Elsbeth did as her mother directed her to do. But on the day her mother had died, Elsbeth dug it back up and kept it safely stored in her kitchen cabinet for just in case moments.

Soft snores woke Elsbeth from her past musings. She looked at her two golden labradoodles sleeping under the kitchen table. They must have finished their breakfast and decided to take their morning nap.

Elsbeth returned to her morning routine; she pulled out the coffee beans and put them into the grinder. The aroma of roasted nutty scent enfolded Elsbeth's senses. She fixed the coffee and watched it percolate. As if a robot, she pulled out the 2% milk and poured it into the nostalgic pot. Elsbeth turned on the gas and stood back, watching the milk begin to build its bubbles. Elsbeth started vigorously whipping the white creamy liquid with her family heirloom whisk.

Elsbeth's husband, Georgie, walked into the kitchen and stopped. He stared at Elsbeth's hands, knowing what she was about to do.

In the past year, Georgie and Elsbeth had grown apart. With their daughter now a Mom living miles away and Georgie now retired, the daily strain had grown between them.

At times, they were at odds on where to retire. Elsbeth wanted to stay in New England, loving the changing of seasons, while Georgie, a retired detective, wanted to move to Florida for year-round warmth.

Once, Elsbeth and Georgie had gotten into a massive fight over taking a trip. Elsbeth wanted to travel with the dogs to an Airbnb, and Georgie wanted to stay at a hotel and leave the dogs behind.

Most importantly, it was their daily conversations and activities. They had once loved to go to Farmer's markets, play golf together, play card games, and go to Broadway shows. Was that all centered around their daughter? Or did they enjoy doing those things, just the two of them?

They have been sleeping in separate rooms for the past few months, becoming more roommates than lovers. After 40 years of marriage, did a relationship dissolve as quickly as the foamy bubbles in a latte?

Was there anything left that was just for the two of them?

Elsbeth thought love was at the core of their beginning. However, over the years, did it filtered out when they were raising their daughter, and daily work pressures were so intense?

Elsbeth's hands stilled as the milk continued to get frothier as if waiting for Georgie's consent. With a silent nod from Georgie, Elsbeth continued with the swishing motion of the whisk. The white froth was building as enough air built into the milk.

Georgie pulled out the vintage latte cup that had always been used for this occasion. The glazed, no longer shiny ivory porcelain was surprisingly heavy as it was hand-made from clay, not machine-made, as many cups are made from these days.

Georgie poured the fresh brew into the cup and walked it to their kitchen table.

Elsbeth wandered over and looked at Georgie, knowing the question on the tip of her tongue was the same as his own.

She slowly poured the milky froth into the toasty, warm liquid gold. As the meeting of tiny milky bubbles took shape, Elsbeth asked, "Will Georgie and I be okay?"

The tiny bubbles gather around the cup, parting here and there, assembling together like friends. Swirling, bubbling, skating around the smooth caramel-kissed brew.

Elsbeth and Georgie each placed their hands on the sides of the porcelain cup as if to hold it together. They watched in fascination as the milky froth played in the silky brew.

A maze began to take shape, with paths looking blocked and paths leading to what? What was in the center? Elsbeth and Georgie's heads hovered over the cup, softy bumping into each other.

A tiny heart grew in the center of the maze. With a quiet intake of breath, Elsbeth and Georgie looked up at each other. Tears welled up in the old lover's eyes.

"We will be okay, Georgie. If we stay in the maze, we will find our way back to each other. We are at a crossroads. It will be our choice to make our way to the center or walk out of our maze. What path do we follow?" Elsbeth asked softly.

Georgie looked down at the now-fading latte art, once a scene of twisting paths, a heart at its center and small exits out.

Georgie's hand reached for Elsbeth's, growing cold from the fading warmth.

"We choose to stay in the maze and find our way back to each other. We choose the heart; we choose us."

The End