I took one my hot cup of black Caribou coffee and finally realized that the "high-quality" coffee I have been brewing here in Singapore isn't all that "high-quality." Don't get me wrong. I love my French Press, and both Ikea and Starbucks have been faithful to supply me with delicious perks to accompany my morning times in God's Word. But Mom sent me some Caribou coffee and I brewed it this morning for the first time.
The flavors were bold, but not overpowering. The smoothness wasn't bitter. For a moment, I was home.
If I had to make a list, among friends, family, and my Jeep Wrangler, I think a cup of Caribou coffee would, with out question, be included. But then, in my mind's eye, I saw a Facebook picture that my brother posted a few weeks ago. His front yard in Chaska was covered in a nasty white substance called snow. I immediately pictured myself shuffling from the doorway of Caribou coffee to my Jeep, through ice, drift, and sludge with my cup of esteemed Caribou in hand. Beneath 15 layers of clothing, my very marrow was freezing. And I hadn't even started to scrape my windshield.
How bad to I miss Caribou?
The second thought I had was, wouldn't it be nice to have the Caribou without the cold? Then it dawned on me. That's the way it is. Here I am in Singapore, a joyful breeze waltzing through my open windows as the sun is breaking through sparse gliding clouds. It's hot, but not uncomfortable, and I'm sipping a cup of Caribou coffee to start my day.
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