Recently, I’ve been obsessed with earl grey matcha lattes.
Consisting of homemade earl grey syrup, skim milk, crunchy ice, and a ceremonial matcha mix, the taste reminds me of the remainders of a morning cornflakes bowl—the milk left with a slight tinge of peanut butter and sugar, making for a delectable drink after consuming the crunchy cereal.
It’s reminiscent of languid summer mornings, when waking up at 11 a.m. produced more drowsiness than waking up early. On these mornings, I’d shuffle into the kitchen and fix myself a bowl of cereal: the perfect breakfast without much effort put into it.
On Mar. 1, the morning was similar to this one—the sun was weakly shining through the windows, the returning robins from winter cheeped in the pine trees, and the grass had begun to regrow after being repressed by a harsh winter.
I made myself an earl grey matcha latte that morning, transfixed with the joyous sensation of saccharine serotonin from the flavor. Hand in hand with this emotion was the knowledge that I had turned 17 only a few hours before.
I’ve always considered my birthday to be the strangest day of the year. I never feel older, usually end up crying at some point, and always feel an eternal longing for the age I was before that day.
17 is different so far.
It’s weighted a bit by the constant stress of schoolwork and extracurricular activities, but the feeling is less like suffocating and more like a weighted blanket: comforting, grounding, and a little bit safe.
Maybe it’s the fact that Mar. 1 was the first day in a long few months that the sun was gleaming onto the wood tile floor of my kitchen, and the outside air reminded me of April showers and May flowers. I’ve always considered March the start of spring, the unconditional season where rebirth is a common theme.
Perhaps the sentiment of spring coupled with the determination I had to maintain positivity throughout the day has already defined 17 for me. From skipping around numerous Grand Rapids restaurants, visiting my grandma and her cat, and capturing the entire day on my film camera, 17 already feels like an absolute stroke of luck.
I’ve never been one to wish on finding a four-leaf clover or been blessed enough with plucking one unknowingly from the grass. I used to search for them frantically in my old backyard, scouring among the tall flower beds and turning over wood chips. Eventually, I gave up. I believed the odds wouldn’t ever be in my favor for a drink of Felix Felicis.
But, this year, I think I’ll go looking for a lucky clover again. Even if I’m not successful, I’ll know that the true luck came from my choices to enjoy the present a little more and not be burdened by past lives.
In the truth of it, Mar. 1 is one of my favorite days; not because it’s my birthday, but because it’s the reminder of the omnipresent seasonal clock ticking down again, earl grey matcha lattes tasting sweet with sunshine again, and four-leaf clovers blooming in infinitesimal quantities in my backyard again, just waiting to be found.
