Saturday afternoon, Miles and I ordered drinks from the local coffeehouse. I selected a French vanilla cappuccino. I've been drinking French vanilla cappuccinos for about 10 years now. (I may not be overly adventurous with my selections, but I ought to get points for constancy.)

Anyway, as soon as I submitted my order, the high schoolish girl asked, bewildered and wide-eyed, "Do you know it has foam?" (Both her distaste and her abhorrence were altogether obvious.)

Automatically, my 'Midwest Nice', as it is called, activated and I replied, "Yes, that's fine, thank you." However, walking back with our drinks, the sarcastic nature of my being spurred the raising of my left eyebrow. I asked Miles out of the side of my mouth, "Isn't the definition of a cappuccino steamed milk foam mixed with espresso?" Miles nodded and shrugged.

I have ordered many cappuccinos since. Many French vanilla cappuccinos, to be precise. A habit once broken has been remade. Each instance, we return to our cozy table and gaze into the cup to witness the foam. Yesterday, at Border's, I replied, disgustedly, "Aw man! They did it again! FOAM!" I spat and sputtered and Miles offered to trade me drinks. I rejoined, "Not on your life, buster."