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I n a sheltered corner of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, where the sun's rays delicately caress the green leaves of coffee trees, a story that transcends the unmistakable aroma of Colombian coffee ends. Here, in this limited edition, the threads of welcomes and farewells intertwine, weaving a timeless narrative that reaches your hands in this coffee bag. In the loom of our farm's history, in 2016, we gave the green light to the planting of a new variety of coffee: the typica variety. This is one of the oldest varieties in the world and differs from the Café Isabelita you already know in its floral notes, jasmine, citronella, with silky body, along with sweet notes of pollen. This limited edition is not only the last harvest of this typica variety, it is a poem in each bean, an ode to the effort and passion that has impregnated our farms since the day we decided to challenge the frontiers of convention. Each bag, marked and numbered by hand, carries with it the weight of ex
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Recent posts

Enough

I woke up at 6 am today. This wasn't early enough.  I got ready for the day. Took my oldest to school, took my youngest to his yearly check-up, then to Kindergarten. Went to work, handled calls and emails and tasks and had only 2 cups of coffee.  All of this wasn't enough. I picked up my children and their friends, served as carpool for one and as "home for the day" for the other. I prepared a balanced, home-cooked meal from scratch, including potatoes that I had harvested with my children a few weeks earlier - which (I also feel is relevant to point out) we had planted a few months earlier. While the kids ate, I unloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and finished a load of laundry. And still, this wasn't enough. One kid was picked up for sport, another kid came to replace him. While the children played, I tended to the garden, I checked the mailbox, I picked up after them, I tidied up a bit. Then I took those 3 kids to their sport and picked up 4 new kids t
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My bucket list

As I enter my 40th year on this earth, I find myself with the need to create a Bucket List. Not because I have a sudden fear of death or because I feel my life has been empty until now. Neither of those are true. Rather, "new decade, new me". I want to travel the world. I want to discover what new cultures, new languages, new foods and new people have to share.  I want to go to the happiest place on Earth, and I want to discuss whether the flavors I am tasting are rather red or purple fruits, while the sun sets on the west coast and my purple dress floats with the cool breeze of the pacific fall.  I want to go back home and drink coffee while sitting on the veranda, knowing that this cup was harvested, milled, dried, ground and prepared with love for me, exclusively. I want to get lost trying to find out where the mountains of the Sierra Nevada blend into the Caribbean Sea, while the birds drown the silence and the fresh caribbean spring breeze wisks my curls across my face.
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Time

I always needed more time. I was always complaining about not having enough time. I could never do what I had to do, because I didn't have the time. Much less could I do what I wanted to do, because there was no time. Self-care? No time.  And for those things that I did need to find time for, it was always tightly scheduled. Garden work? Hurry, there is little time. Reading to my children? Only one book, there is no time. Dessert after a meal? Quicky, there is no time. Showering or bathing in the tub? Not so long, we don't have time.  Always this excuse, always this word, always this made-up concept. Made-up, yes, but absolutely necessary. My kids, for example, want to eat dinner and chat and also play a game and then eat seconds and then have dessert and then a hug and then cuddle and then please-don't-make-me-brush-my-teeth and then also read a book together and also read a book alone and listen to a song and listen to a story book and ... there are only so many hours in
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As I lay... waiting for Godot

Since mash-ups in the musical industry are the big hit at the moment, I fugured I'd jump on that bandwagon and attempt to mash-up some literature myself. Because, in the infamous words of my little sister, "why not?!" As I lay dying - and this is a very metaphoric death, because at my latest check-up my doctor told me I have the health of a 30-year-old - I find myself rather than pondering the future, just waiting for Godot. Interesting, because as a pscudo-catholic, the kind that just follows the socially-accepted holidays and refuses to pay taxes to the institution, I do find myself praying to God to show me the reason for my sadness, to guide me out of it. To save me. Now, I don't want to say God has not responded - rather, I'm aware that I may not be listening. It is hard to listen to that which one does not want to accept or admit.  Waiting for Godot I have noticed that I have been waiting for a long time now. Always with a good excuse, always with good reaso
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Finding Myself

I'm well aware of all my identities, past and present. I wear them like masks - some, I have even worn like capes. Proudly displaying them for the world to see and admire. I used to believe that I could "put on" one identity and be authentic, and then "put on" another one and still the authentic. And at least in my heart I was authentic. Natalya, the 16-year-old poet was an authentic identity for me; Natalya, the Journalist was a thrilling identity (that came with an official badge and access to many venues and people I would have otherwise not been able to get close to); Natalya, the Foreigner was (and continues to be!) my favorite identity, the one with which I feel most at ease. Perhaps because it is the simplest one, the one that requires the least amount of work from my side: I just happen to not have been born where I live. I have been living with this identity for 22 years. Most recently, Rolfs-Mutter and Christophs-Mama have joined the ranks of my favori
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Challenges

During this peculiar time*, we are all faced with challenges. *I think that I need to clear this up for posterity. Today, we all know that this "peculiar time" refers ro the Coronavirus - COVID-19 Pandemic that is terrorizing the world. Although Germany does not have strict quarantine rules (rather a regulation that prevents gatherings of two or more people not belonging to the same household, both privately and publicly), my husband and I decided that, for the well-being of the family, and since (thanks to my job) I can, I would quarantine with the children at home. Kindergarten (all schools, actually) are closed, so they have to stay home; I have the privilege of being able to work from home, so it all kind of works out. As I write this, I am in my seventh week of quarantine - 45 days.  Before the pandemic and the quarantine, I used to measure my successes (and failures) in years, months perhaps. I say, filled with sadness, that 2019 was the worst year of my life. And a
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