The farm lantern came to us one Christmas as a gift from my father-in-law, who was once a farmer. There was no grand explanation, just the lantern, given with intention, along with a small note reminding us to be the light in a dark world. Every time I look at it, I think of the care he put into choosing it, and how some gifts carry more meaning than words ever could.
For my dad, that memory is chrome and loud, with side exhausts and a 427 engine under the hood. For me, I had two “firsts.” One I wrecked. The other, a midnight purple 1994 Chevy Beretta, carried me through my college days filled with late-night drives, mixtapes, and more roadtrips that I can count.
A couple of years ago, during a pre-Christmas brunch, I asked my Dad to tell me about his first car. I pressed record on my phone, and the story that unfolded was part muscle car, part hard-won triumph, and part father sharing a memory his daughter would keep for a lifetime.
It’s the room where all of life seems to meet—meals, memories, quiet mornings, and conversations that linger a little longer and leave a lasting impact. And somehow, Coca-Cola has always felt like part of that slow summer rhythm—ice clinking in a glass, bottle caps popping open on a porch, the taste of something familiar on a hot afternoon.
Some kitchens are filled not just with food but with treasures: heirlooms, collections, and little pieces of history tucked into everyday life. This summer, I’m sharing a story close to my heart—a conversation with my dear college friend, Trisha, about her collection of Coca-Cola tins and trays. A collection built over the years, gathered from vintage markets, family keepsakes, and childhood kitchens where Coca-Cola wasn’t just a drink—it was part of the story.
I hope it stirs up some summer memories of your own.