French Vanilla Mocha

Holi. The eighth. The spring festival that brings color and joy and the annual opportunity to watch Amma get covered in purple. She was at the temple food station. Making thandai. Covered in purple. Laughing with Kamala Aunty. Being herself — the bright, social, temple-committee version of Lakshmi Krishnamurthy that appears during festivals and is indistinguishable from the woman she was before the diagnosis. This is the cruelty and the mercy of Alzheimer's: it comes and goes. Some days she's fully here — cooking, laughing, arguing about cheese in dosa. Other days the fog comes: she asks what day it is, she calls Anaya by the wrong name, she pours the coffee wrong. The disease is not a straight line. It's a coastline — jagged, unpredictable, the land eroding unevenly. Today was a good day. A purple day. A thandai day. Anaya ran through the colors with Rohan on her back — not literally, she carried him in the way that three-and-a-half-year-olds carry babies, which is to say she held his hand while he sat in a stroller and claimed she was "carrying" him. Rohan, eight months old, experienced Holi by having his feet dusted in yellow and his face in pink, and he looked at the colors with the open-mouthed wonder that is his default expression. I stood at the edge and watched. Not participating — watching. The pharmacist, the writer, the daughter, standing apart, cataloging the scene for the book, for the blog, for the record. Dr. Mehta and I talked about this — the watching. The way I've positioned myself as the recorder of the family rather than a participant in it. "You're so busy documenting life that you forget to live it," she said. "Put down the pen sometimes. Be in the purple." Be in the purple. I walked into the crowd and let a child dust my face with green and I laughed and the laughing was the first thing in a week that wasn't clinical or careful or watchful. I made thandai at home. Saffron, almonds, cardamom. The drink of spring, of color, of the day my therapist told me to stop recording and start living. The thandai was cold and sweet and I drank it without analyzing it.

I came home from the temple still smelling like green powder, Rohan asleep in the car seat and Anaya already narrating the day to herself in the back seat. Amma’s laugh was still in my ear. Dr. Mehta’s words were still in my chest. I didn’t want tea. I didn’t want anything that required me to think too hard or measure too carefully. I wanted something cold and sweet and flavored and indulgent — something that said spring and celebration and being in the purple. This French vanilla mocha was it: quick, rich, a little extra, and drunk without analyzing a single sip.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

2 cups strong brewed coffee or 4 shots espresso, cooled slightly
1 cup whole milk (or oat milk)
3 tablespoons French vanilla creamer
2 tablespoons chocolate syrup, plus more for drizzling
1 tablespoon sugar, or to taste
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of cardamom (optional, for warmth)
Ice cubes
Whipped cream, for serving

Instructions

Brew and cool. Brew 2 cups of strong coffee or pull 4 espresso shots. Let cool for a few minutes — you don’t want to melt the ice immediately.
Mix the base. In a small pitcher or measuring cup, combine the coffee, milk, French vanilla creamer, chocolate syrup, sugar, and vanilla extract. Stir well until the sugar dissolves and everything is blended. If using cardamom, add it now and stir again.
Taste and adjust. Add more chocolate syrup for richness, more creamer for sweetness, or more coffee for boldness. This is your drink — make it yours.
Pour over ice. Fill two tall glasses generously with ice. Pour the mocha mixture over the ice, dividing evenly between the two glasses.
Finish and serve. Top each glass with a swirl of whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup. Serve immediately and drink without analyzing it.

Nutrition (per serving)

French Vanilla Mocha — The Drink I Made When I Finally Put Down the Pen