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A Spilled Tea Fog

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Sometimes it's necessary to spill the tea with some tea. Not just any tea though - juicy, sweet, special - just like a good Fog. Where tea is a Toyota Prius, a London Fog is a low-riding 1962 black Corvette with the top down with the wind in your hair as you're blasting toward a sunset in the Midwestern US.  Today the tea was spilled on a warm summer afternoon. Have you been able to tell I've entirely abandoned any timeline on my Fog posts? Time is irrelevant in Fog-world.  There's something incredibly special about having an excited conversation while gently holding a warm drink. It allows you to sit back in your chair, cross your legs, hold your hands, and listen.  Visual examples include (but are not limited to) an older therapist sitting back in their chair, whose eyes are still full of wonder despite having heard it all; a timely old grandperson adjusting their recliner to listen to their six-year-old grandchild talk endlessly about their activities at school; ...
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A 'It's not Goodbye' Fog

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There are as many variations of social situations in which I'd seek a fog as there are stars in the sky. Happy occasions, sad occasions, and most somewhere in between.  What better way to wish a friend 'safe travels' than with a Fog?  Today's beveragino was acquired from one of the more fancy coffee shops I've ever stumbled into, one where Macha Lattes are the most popular drink order and there are six different milk options. 'When in Rome', I thought, and ordered my London Fog with Oat Milk.  Upon arrival, our twin fogs resembled small, plump, cheerful birds. Cute would be the best word to describe them. The hearts drawn with frothed milk were jolly, to say the least.  The fog was delightful, I will say. The oat milk added more creamy depth than the regular bovine product.  We 'cheersed' our fogs and bid adieu once we had taken the final sip.  8/10 Fog.  
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Study Fog

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This fog was, at the beginning, outrageously underwhelming. I took a couple of sips before realizing the expectations I garnered from my walk over were misplaced. My disappointment was noticeable. The first sip of this fog was alarmingly hot and watery, not at all sweet, and entirely disheartening. I had to excuse myself to use the washroom to recover.  I returned empowered, ready to take my fog's destiny into my own hands. I remembered there were three simple syrup stations sitting beside the counter, which, I decided, could be this fog's saving grace. The moral implications that come from my meddling with my Fog's creation are questionable. Who am I, he who writes, he who judges, suddenly throws away his impartiality in the process and changes the outcome? I don't have an answer, but I'll certainly be thinking about it 3am tonight.  So, throwing my moral quandaries into the wind, I gave my fog three good pumps of simple syrup and tottled back to the table. I took ...
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