|Pablo Cavazos

Pablo sat on the balcony with his mate in hand and his baby in the highchair beside him. As he gazed at the clear sky, he carefully prepared the mate.

—Look, kid, this is mate — he told the baby with his strong Buenos Aires accent —. This isn't just anything, you know. It's tradition, energy, and family.

The baby looked at him curiously, stretching his little hands towards the mate. Pablo brought the bombilla closer as if it were a game.

—Go ahead, try it... Well, no, because you're still little and otherwise Mom will kill us, but one day you'll learn how to brew beer. But if you brew it wrong, I'll send you to bed early, understand?

The little boy tried to bite the mate gourd and Pablo burst out laughing.

—No, champ, you don't bite this. But I like that you're putting in the effort. You're going to be good at this, I can see it.

He leaned back in his chair, taking a sip, thinking that one day they would truly share this ritual. For now, the mate and the goals would have to wait.