For as long as I can remember, the aroma of coffee has been a part of my home. Every morning, without fail, my mother would get up and the first thing she would do was put the coffee maker on the stove. That gentle bubbling, that deep, enveloping aroma, marked the beginning of the day. It was the soundtrack of our mornings.

The coffee maker stayed on all day, every day: always ready, always hot. And every time someone came through the door, no matter the time or the reason, the first thing offered was a cup of coffee—or tinto, as we call it in Colombia. It was our way of saying: welcome, this is your home.

Coffee in my life has always been a ritual and a language of love.

The last words my mother said to me were: “I’m dying for a coffee.” And the last thing I did to show her all my love was to make her the most special coffee in the world. We shared that cup and those final moments as a sacred, intimate, and eternal act.

That’s where it all began.

Of an aroma, a ritual, and a story that lives in every cup.