Remembrances of Roscos

Abuela was the consummate cook, the perfect grandmother from a Norman Rockwell painting. My early holiday memories are filled with the smells and tastes that came from her kitchen. Pumpkin pies, homemade pizza, enchiladas and a score of Christmas cookies. I especially remember the delicate, flaky donut-shaped roscos — cookies made chiefly from three ingredients: white wine, melted butter and flour. A teaspoon of anise seeds cooked in the melting butter and then discarded, as well as a final dusting of cinnamon sugar after the cookies baked, were the only other flavorings.

One year, I ate so many, sneaking out of my bed at night to grab just a few more, that I earned the nickname “bottomless stomach.” I remember countless nights sitting at her kitchen table sharing holiday thoughts, a cup of tea with sugar and real cream and a couple of roscos before bed. Each flaky morsel, dunked into the tea and quickly removed, melted in my mouth like snowflakes in a California valley.

Today, whenever I take out the cookie sheets or baking pans and create my own warm smells of home, I can’t help but feel like I’m channeling Abuela’s spirit.

NOTE: This short essay was first published in the October 2004 edition of The Nature of Writing News, an online newsletter.