At eighteen, I decided I needed one unforgettable adventure before stepping into the so-called “adult world.” Up until then I’d been the straight-laced farm kid—no parties, no drinking, no troublemaking. But by nineteen, I was living in a tucked-away village in the Austrian Alps, and mischief was waiting for me.
 
It was Halloween night—my nineteenth birthday—and my friend Birgit dragged me to my very first pub. The place buzzed with music and laughter, glasses clinked, and in the distance was the soft shouting of couples finding love over the noise... or at least love for the night. She ordered flaming B52 shots and mugs of spiced Spanish coffee, each one set on fire, glowing like little cauldrons in the dark.
 
What followed was delicious chaos: too many Spanish coffees, soaking wet dances through rain-slicked streets, my very first wicked puff of a cigarette, and a dare-filled detour into a candlelit cemetery. Among crooked headstones, we played a loud, ridiculous game of “Would you rather?” until our laughter echoed against the mountains like ghosts.
 
To this day, I can’t spot Spanish coffee on a menu without thinking of that night—the fire, the laughter, the little bit of trouble that tasted like freedom.
 
This candle is a tribute to that mischief: dark roasted coffee tangled with cinnamon and clove, kissed with orange liqueur and spiced rum, and finished with a whisper of smoke. It’s Halloween in a cup—sweet, wicked, and just a little dangerous.