We all have our minor vices. My innocent, but costly habit, is the six dollar latte I treat myself to pre/post work whenever time permits. It’s a shameful choice - an overpriced espresso with steamed milk, made with beans shipped from halfway around the globe, paid for in pennies but branded with some corporate standard of fair-trade, and served in a tall non-recyclable paper cup. The guilt finally got to me, and I decided to go local – I found an adorable independent café, complete with spindly-legged tables, art, and chalkboard menu boards. It was perfect – except my coffee was terrible. It was burnt and overly sweet, and it sat on my desk at work, an angry reminder having cheated on my long faithful chain of coffee powerhouses. And now I’m stuck in caffeine limbo – hating my allegiances and unfulfilled by the alternatives.