When I was young, about 4 years old, my parents would make me chocolate milk (which I would pronounce “clocklet milk”) before bed. They would put it in a sippy cup and heat it up in the microwave. It wasn’t anything fancy, just Nesquik and milk. I remember sitting on my dad’s lap, my little sister across from me on his other lap as he rocked in the rocking chair in my parents’ bedroom, drinking warm chocolate milk as my dad told us a story he would make up off the top of his head. I would be warmed inside and out, by my dad’s embrace from the outside and the hot drink on the inside. Warm drinks in your hands supposedly simulate the warmth of another person. With the warmth of my father enveloping me on top of that, it was safety and sleepy comfort and home. My dad is gone now–he passed away last month–but his warmth and the warmth of a hot drink will forever be intertwined in my memories.