So someone advised me to write about how Pookachino came about, and since it is 9:30 on a Sunday night and there about a hundred other things I should be doing to get ready for the week instead, I decided now would be a good time to talk about it.
So without further ado…
Once upon a time, on a snowy evening in Colorado…
Okay, honestly, I don’t know if it was snowy or not, but we were in Colorado, as that is where I grew up, and it snows a lot there, so let’s just assume there was snow somewhere in this picture.
I like snow. It’s pretty.
Anyway, my older sister and I were walking up the stairs to our third floor apartment, when my sister said the magic word: Pooka.
I glanced back at her, confused and most likely irritated, as I was a grumpy and moody teenager at this time. I asked her why she was calling me Pooka, but she didn’t say anything, just shrugged it off with nothing more than a wicked smile spread across her face.
The intention was clear. She was calling me Pooka because she knew it would annoy me.
Well, despite my protestations (Do you know how annoying it is when you have the stomach flu and everyone is calling you Puke-a?), the name stuck, and before I knew it, my entire family was referring to me as Pooka.
Eventually, I realized that fighting it was only making things worse, so I decided to accept my fate and embrace my new title.
Once I had my change of heart, after either a Starbucks run or a pit stop at the gas station for sour straws and soda, my sisters, my dad, and I were all joking around in the car, hopped up on sugar, when we got on the topic of coffee shop names. At this point in my life, we all knew I was going to study business, and the hope was that I would open my own coffee shop for us to imbibe our caffeine addictions all day long.
Anyway, it really came down to simple math: Pooka + Cappuccino = Pookachino.
I realize now that I didn’t spell Pookachino correctly.
Oh, well. My forte is math and drinking coffee. Not spelling.
And that is the story of Pookachino.