I just made my first cup of coffee at home. It is true. Or almost anyway. When I was a kid, my sis Jessica and I used to make an effort to wake up our mom with breakfast on birthdays and on Lucia, and since my parents got divorced when I was eight, I learned to master the coffeemaker at an early age. (This was long before the espresso found its way up to the cold North.) But somewhere in my adolescent, this useful knowledge was forgotten. It was not until I moved to Italy at the age of 30 that I actually acquired a taste for this stimulating beverage, a taste which soon turned into a semi-addiction. Having had the fortune of living in countries with cheap coffee ready available, I have until now avoided making coffee at home. But when I moved here, I realized that buying coffee out is no longer an option (due to price, the fact that most coffee is served in paper-cups, and to be frank: the taste). So when I was in the store the other day, I took the major step to invest in a jar of coffee, and today I made my first cup! And when I pored my first made-by-me cup by the stove in my kitchen, the thought that “I am really adult now” actually popped up in my head. I am not sure why. Perhaps because the smell of coffee at home on a Sunday morning reminded me of my mom and my grandmother and all of a sudden, I felt like I belonged to another generation. Regardless, the coffee was good and I think I started a good habit. Now I can slack around in my PJ for as long as I wish in the weekends!