They handed me a cup of mossy green,
and said, “It’s earthy.”
Back in my day,
“earthy” meant
you forgot to wash the potatoes.
I’m a millennial.
I survived dial-up internet,
MSN Messenger,
burning CDs,
Windows XP,
and coffee so strong
it could revive the dead.
You call it ceremonial grade.
I call it
someone blended the front lawn.
“Give it time,” they say.
“It grows on you.”
So does mold.
You whisk it with a bamboo brush,
admire the foam,
take fifteen photos,
and somehow the drink gets cold
before anyone actually drinks it.
I drink my tea
before the camera even opens.
It’s not that I hate matcha.
I admire the commitment,
the ritual,
the aesthetic,
the tiny bowls
that cost more than my first mobile phone.
But my taste buds still ask,
“Can we just have milk tea?”
One sip of matcha,
and I start wondering
which poor leaf
dreamed of becoming this.
So here’s to my fellow millennials,
raised on instant coffee,
masala chiya,
and drinks
that never came with instructions.
May your mugs stay full,
your caffeine stay simple,
and your beverages never resemble
freshly mowed grass.
Because while everyone else
is finding inner peace
in a bowl of green,
I’ll be over here,
that one of many millennials
happily drinking something
that doesn’t taste like
the garden after rain.