The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,7
ground spice in the little bag Abuelita had given her. It lay there quietly, unremarkable, the color of wet beach sand. She undid the tie around the top of the bag and swirls of warm gold and licorice danced up to her nose, bringing with them miles of faraway deserts and a dark, starless sky, a longing she could feel in the back of her eyes, her fingertips. Lillian knew, putting the bag back down on the counter, that the spice was more grown-up than she was.
Really, Abuelita? she asked into the air.
Just a touch. Let it simmer until it all comes together. You’ll know when it does.
Lillian turned the heat on low. She went to the refrigerator, got the whipping cream, and set the mixer on high, checking the saucepan periodically. After a while, she could see the specks of chocolate disappearing into the milk, melting, becoming thicker, creamier, one thing rather than many.
Use your wand.
Lillian picked up the wand, rolling the handle musingly between the palms of her hands. She gripped the slender central stick with purpose and dipped the ridged end into the pan. Rolling the wand forward and back between her palms, she sent the ridges whirling through the liquid, sending the milk and chocolate across the pan in waves, creating bubbles across the top of the surface.
“Abracadabra,” she said. “Please.”
Now add to your mother’s coffee.
One life skill Lillian’s mother had not abandoned for books was making coffee; a pot was always warm on the counter, as dependable as a wool coat. Lillian filled her mother’s mug halfway with coffee, then added the milk chocolate, holding back the orange peels and cinnamon so the liquid would be smooth across the tongue.
Top with whipping cream, for softness. Give to your mother.
“What is that amazing smell?” her mother asked, as Lillian carried the cup into the living room.
“Magic,” Lillian said.
Her mother reached for the cup and raised it to her mouth, blowing gently across the surface, the steam spiraling up to meet her nose. She sipped tentatively, almost puzzled, her eyes looking up from her book to stare at something far away, her face flushing slightly. When she was finished, she handed the cup back to Lillian.
“Where did you learn to make that?” she said, leaning back and closing her eyes.
“THAT’S WONDERFUL,” said Abuelita when Lillian recounted the story to her the next day. “You made her remember her life. Now she just needs to reach out to it. That recipe,” Abuelita said in answer to Lillian’s questioning face, “must be yours. But you will find it,” she continued. “You are a cook. It’s a gift from your mother.”
Lillian raised an eyebrow skeptically. Abuelita gazed at her, gently amused.
“Sometimes, niña, our greatest gifts grow from what we are not given.”
Two days later, Lillian headed straight home after classes. The weather had turned during the night, and the air as Lillian left school that day had a clear, brittle edge to it. Lillian walked at a fast pace, to match the air around her. She lived at the edge of town, where a house could still stand next door to a small orchard, and where kitchen gardens served as reminders of larger farms not so long gone. There was one orchard she particularly liked, a grove of apple trees, twisted and leaning, growing toward each other like old cousins. The owner was as old as his trees and wasn’t able to take care of them much anymore. Grass grew thick around their bases and ivy was beginning to grasp its way up their trunks. But the apples seemed not to have noticed the frailty of their source, and were firm and crisp and sweet; Lillian waited for them every year, and for the smile of the old man as he handed them to her across the fence.
He was in among the trees when she walked by and called out to him. He turned and squinted in her direction. He waved, then turned and reached up into one of the trees, checking first one apple then the next. Finally satisfied, he came toward her, an apple in each hand.
“Here,” he said, handing them to her. “A taste of the new season.”
THE SKY WAS already darkening by the time Lillian got home, and the cold air came in the door with her. Her mother sat in her usual chair in the living room, a book held under a circle of light made by the reading lamp.
“I have something for you, Mom,”