Weekends, vacations, work days when the idea of another cup of coffee makes me sick. Those are life's cappuccino moments.

Cappuccinos represent relaxation, the prospect of conversation, an escape from the mundane. Just saying the word -- cap pu chee no -- my spirits soar.

Consider the well-made cap. The single shot of espresso keeps the caffeine load within limits. The crowning touch -- steamed milk topped with froth -- avoids the excesses of lattes that drown their drinkers in way too much cow juice.

Caps -- the drink of the cafe gods.

At least they were until Jenny began messing with my mind.

A year ago my daughter applied for a job at a fancy coffee house in East Sacramento where the owner was as serious about java as Barry Bonds is about home runs.

Jenny was put through a grueling training program. There were tests on coffee beans and the countries that grow them. She had to critique the competition.

Finally, Jenny was subjected to rigorous workouts at the espresso machine where the ultimate test of barista skills was the making of a perfect cap.

Why the cappuccino and not the latte or the mocha? Because the cap requires more finesse. The espresso-milk-foam proportions have to be just right or something sublime becomes just so-so.

In her boss' view, 99.9 percent of the caps out there are swill. The coffee is inferior. The espresso machine is calibrated to the wrong pressure. And the worst flaw of all: bad foam.

Do you know how many ways foam can be botched? Ask Jenny, who passed her training with flying colors. Not only did she get the job, she became a certified coffee snob.

To spend a little time with Jen is to submerge yourself in coffee minutia. Steeped in arcane knowledge about the bean, she can describe a cup of coffee with as many adjectives as an enophile talking about the 1976 Judgment at Paris wine tasting.

Proving that a lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing, Jenny began viewing other people's coffee with contempt. Starbucks? Don't get her started.

I found Jenny's trash talk both entertaining and instructive. I realized I'd been blind to the nuances of the cap. I'd been drinking whatever was served to me, never pondering why some cups were better than others.

Mostly it's the foam, Jenny said. In the hands of an indifferent or poorly trained barista, the foam can be too stiff, like beaten egg whites on a lemon meringue pie, or too light, like froth washed onto the beach by the waves.

Good foam is soft and velvety and protectively blankets the liquid below, she said.

In Jenny's view, only her cafe and two others in all of greater Sacramento consistently turn out perfect foam. In Napa, there are none.

Not even Peet's? Jenny shook her head.

I didn't want Jenny's perfectionism to poison my mind. I live in Napa. I want to be able to enjoy a cappuccino in Napa. Sacramento is just too far to drive.

But as much as I tried, Jenny's criticisms took hold. I began enjoying my Napa caps less and less.

I began obsessing on the espresso-milk-foam proportions which were clearly different at Jenny's place than here. Napa caps had way more milk, which reduced the espresso to insignificance. And the foam. It was all wrong.

What had been a lovely afternoon treat was now aggravatingly off the mark, thanks to Jenny, the cappuccino Nazi.

Jenny said I should be more demanding. Even at her shop, perfectionist customers risk being obnoxious to get their drink served to their exacting specifications.

Did I want to make a public spectacle of myself to be assured perfect foam? I wasn't sure.

Well then, Jenny said. I could at least ask the barista not to drown out the espresso with steamed milk. Ask for a dry cap, she said.

I began asking for dry caps. It didn't seem to make any difference. Or if it did, I lacked the sensory apparatus to appreciate it.

It's not working, I said. My caps are still way too milky. And the foam never approaches your ideal.

Then I need to ask for a short dry cap, Jenny said. The "short" ought to cut the milk way back.

I tried committing her words to memory so I wouldn't flub my next order. Short dry cap, short dry cap, short dry cap. If I say them correctly, will anyone listen?

A beautiful thing happened last Sunday at Starbucks. I uttered the words for the first time and magic happened.

Right off the bat, the cashier dropped the price by a quarter.

When the barista called out my name, the smallest cup I'd ever seen was waiting for me. The milk had been greatly reduced. The foam was decent.

My cap was pretty good. All in all, a great improvement. It was nearly as wonderful as in the old days before Jenny ascended Mount Arabica.