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.
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