Espumita

I don’t need silence,
I need the hiss—
the cafetera’s morning kiss.
A metal prayer on the stovetop set,
una danza I won’t forget.

First drops fall,
rich and bold.
They mix with sugar,
liquid gold.
I beat and stir until it peaks—
sweet foam that hums
but never speaks.

Espumita, soft and light,
born from patience, heat, and bite.
Abuela did it just this way—
no measure, just her wrist’s ballet.

I stir with soul,
I watch it rise,
a frothy crown,
a small surprise.

Not just for taste,
not just routine—
it’s how we make
the bitter clean.

Espumita:
flair and fire,
the Cuban way
to build desire.

Author’s Note:

I’m not Cuban—but my husband is, and when we met, so was my first proper introduction to Cuban coffee. I had tasted it before, of course—growing up in Miami, it’s in every corner café and ventanita. But I never really knew the effort, the technique, or the care it took to make espumita until he—and later, his mom—taught me.

Now, I make my own café con leche with pride. I take my time. I swirl the sugar and espresso slowly, like I’ve earned the right to claim the foam. When I’m at someone else’s house, I’ll drink a straight cortadito without blinking. But at home? I sip. I savor. I let it rush me gently.

This poem is for that moment—the swirl, the hiss, the foam—and the way it’s quietly become mine too.

Thanks to the Day in the Life challenge for inspiring me to write this ode to a borrowed tradition that now feels like home.