Why I Make Rose Lattes When I Miss Who I Used to Be

There's this thing that happens when you smell rose water. It's not just the floral sweetness hitting your senses—it's like your brain suddenly remembers a version of yourself you'd almost forgotten existed.

For me, that version lived above a tiny art café in Barcelona, where I'd stumble downstairs in my pajamas (because, honestly, who was going to stop me?) and order a vanilla rose latte from Martina, the owner who somehow managed to serve each drink in a different vintage teacup. Never the same one twice.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how we use taste as a time machine. Not just the obvious stuff—like how your grandmother's cookies make you feel seven years old again—but the more complex emotional archaeology that happens when you're deliberately trying to recreate a feeling through flavor.

The Geography of Taste Memory

When I moved away from Barcelona, I thought I'd miss the obvious things. The architecture, the late dinners, the way everyone seemed to understand that life wasn't supposed to be rushed. What I actually missed was more specific and somehow more devastating: the particular ritual of holding a warm cup while watching strangers hurry past windows, feeling simultaneously connected to and separate from the world outside.

That's the weird thing about taste memories. They're never really about the taste.

They're about who you were when you first experienced them. The rose latte wasn't just rose water and steamed oat milk—it was the person I became when I had nowhere to be before 11 AM, when my biggest decision was whether to sit by the window or near the bookshelf, when I was brave enough to live in a country where I barely spoke the language.

I miss that version of myself sometimes. The one who didn't immediately check her phone when she sat down somewhere beautiful.

The Ritual of Remembering

So I started making rose lattes at home, and here's what I discovered: the act of making them is almost more important than drinking them. There's something about measuring out the rose water (and always using slightly too much because I'm impatient), warming the milk while I stand there doing absolutely nothing else, that feels like meditation.

Or maybe it feels like rebellion.

In a world that's constantly asking us to optimize everything—our morning routines, our productivity, our self-care—there's something quietly radical about spending ten minutes making a drink that serves no purpose except to make you feel connected to a memory.

The recipe itself is almost embarrassingly simple. Oat milk (or whatever you have), a splash of rose water (start with less than you think you need), maple syrup, vanilla extract, and just a pinch of ginger that most people probably skip but absolutely shouldn't. Heat it up, froth it if you're feeling fancy, or just stir it aggressively if you're not.

But here's what the recipe doesn't tell you: measure the rose water while thinking about something that made you happy. Let the milk heat slowly while you remember what it felt like to have nowhere urgent to be. Drink it while looking out a window, even if the view is just your neighbor's fence instead of a bustling European street.

The Permission to Recreate Joy

I think we sometimes feel guilty about nostalgia, like longing for past versions of ourselves means we're not grateful enough for who we are now. But what if it's the opposite? What if recreating these small joys is actually a way of telling our past selves that what they experienced mattered enough to carry forward?

When I make my rose latte now, in my kitchen in a completely different city, wearing completely different pajamas, I'm not trying to go backward. I'm trying to bridge the gap between who I was and who I'm becoming.

The drink tastes different here, obviously. The water's different, the light coming through my windows is different, I'm different. But the ritual—the slow stirring, the intentional pause, the small act of caring for myself in a way that feels both indulgent and necessary—that stays the same.

More Than Just Rose Water

I've started thinking about this as "emotional mixology"—the practice of identifying flavors that connect you to versions of yourself you want to remember, and then deliberately incorporating them into your routine.

Maybe for you it's not rose lattes. Maybe it's the way coffee tastes when you drink it from an actual mug instead of a to-go cup. Maybe it's taking the time to toast bread properly instead of just heating it until it's warm-ish. Maybe it's buying the expensive vanilla extract because you remember how your kitchen used to smell when you actually baked things.

The point isn't to recreate the past exactly—that's impossible anyway. The point is to identify the small rituals that made you feel like yourself, and then give yourself permission to keep doing them, even when (especially when) your life looks completely different.

The Ginger Makes All the Difference

Can we talk about the ginger for a second? Because everyone always wants to skip it, and I get it—it seems random. But that tiny bit of warmth, that barely-there spice that you almost don't notice until it's gone, that's what makes the difference between a drink that tastes like flowers and a drink that tastes like comfort.

It's the same with these small rituals. The magic isn't in the big gestures—it's in the tiny details that seem optional but actually hold everything together.

Like taking an extra thirty seconds to really mix everything together instead of just stirring once and calling it good. Like using a mug that feels substantial in your hands instead of whatever's clean. Like turning off the music while you drink it, just for a few minutes.

These aren't Instagram-worthy moments. They're barely even noticeable. But they're the difference between going through the motions and actually arriving somewhere that feels like home.

What Flavor Is Your Nostalgia?

So here's my question for you: what does your comfort taste like? What flavor takes you back to a version of yourself that you miss or want to remember or just want to check in with occasionally?

Maybe it's something your mom made when you were sick. Maybe it's something you discovered during a particularly good period of your life. Maybe it's something simple that you used to make time for but somehow stopped prioritizing.

Whatever it is, I think you should make it this week. Not because nostalgia is healthy or because self-care is important or because you deserve it (though all of those things might be true). But because the person you were when you first loved that flavor—they're still part of you. And they might have something to say to the person you're becoming.

The rose latte is just my way of having that conversation. What's yours?

Take a moment today to identify one flavor that connects you to a version of yourself you want to remember. Then go make it, slowly, while thinking about what that person might want you to know.