Coffee Is Better With Heavy Cream
A love letter to my grandma.
My grandma lives in a house on top of the hill. Her windows are webbed with dust and old memories, painted by the early sunrise over the sycamore trees. She lives on an acre that backs up to BLM land outside Vernal Utah, a quaint town where everyone knows everybody's business. The doves sing their morning song while the neighboring cow farms are sprinkled with fresh manure and irrigation to feed them. It's a place that smells fresh, feels quiet, and is the ideal place to live slowly and intentionally with family. The perfect escape from childhood chaos.
Every summer growing up, I spent a whole month with her in that house, not missing my parents once. We'd curl up and eat buttered toast, watching Blazing Saddles as she brought her handheld mirror and skincare routine to the coffee table each morning. Our days were spent band-aiding bruises from the water park, collecting library books, and loading up on Cherry Coke at the matinee together. I'd run into that nearby BLM land and get lost at sunset — no phone, no Facebook. Neither was a thing in middle school; I had grasshoppers to chase. Some days, my cousins, just 2 hours east, would visit for a few nights, and we'd hunt the 4th of July fireworks down the hill and stay up until midnight. This house, in many ways, holds more memories than my own childhood home.
It's the kind of place that people write books about.
When I got old enough to drink coffee, there'd always be a cup waiting for me before I awoke. She'd always tell me that her coffee was the best. "My coffee tastes better than anyone's. You want to know why? I go for the gusto and go with heavy cream instead of milk". Then, if she felt super frisky, she'd dollop a dash of cinnamon at the top. She'd offer me a hot pour in one of her amber-glazed glass mugs because everything tastes better in pretty dishware. Something as simple as her mug choice, the cream alternative, and her confidence gave me the bravery to face another day. Grandmothers are always right and always reassuring.
Before the swath of wholesome Substack articles or TikTok complications told me so, I've always known that the little things matter most. I didn't need self-help articles to remind me; I had her. My grandma was the starting inspiration for this notion since before I could remember, she'd dress me in a sparkling pink dress on a Tuesday, make steak on a Monday, and always answer, "Why not? You're on vacation, babe". She's a woman who's grown into herself as she's gotten older and has the exact emotional security everyone dreams of one day obtaining. She's fun, spunky, and relies on the moments of joy to aid her life's various degrees of grief and loss.
My grandma, like all the classic grandmothers, grew up on friendly neighbors and blue-collar work. She was 1 of 6 children, daughter of her mother, who was 1 of 16. All were raised on cowboy boots, landlines, black-and-white TVs, and farms with outhouses. The American Dream. It's in my blood to love the outdoors and ride a horse, although admittedly, I'm a solid beginner at best.
As I've gotten older — owning a home and having a child — responsibility prohibits me from visiting as often. And if I long to think about it, I get choked up. Tears involuntarily swell with nowhere to go. I long for the time I'll never get back.
It's beautiful to love her this deeply and to miss her tenderly even though she's just a state away.
The desperate attempt to over-romanticize life isn't a habit of the wilfully ignorant; it's a survival skill — a must — a connection and re-grounding.
And, listen. She's right. Coffee genuinely tastes better with heavy cream over milk.
Not half and half.
Not oak milk.
Heavy cream.