An Unexpected Recipe for Growing Up
No one told me that the smell of cinnamon toast could break your heart. That a simple dish — one made from stale bread, a dab of butter, sugar, and spice — could transport you faster than any plane ticket back to your childhood kitchen.
No one told me that the best recipes aren’t written down. They live in the memories of the hands that made them. My grandmother never measured a thing. A “pinch” to her meant what her fingers could gather, not a teaspoon. She’d hum as she worked, a melody of routine and love, and somehow the result always tasted like magic.
No one told me that one day, I’d try to replicate her Sunday morning pancakes and fail. Not because I didn’t have the ingredients, but because I didn’t have her. I stood there, spatula in hand, batter too runny, eyes welling up, wondering how something so simple could feel so impossible.
No one told me food is more than nourishment. It’s language. It’s the quiet “I love you” packed into a lunchbox. The peace offering of a favorite dish after an argument. The first attempt to impress a crush with your best pasta recipe, even if you overcook the noodles.
No one told me that eventually, I’d learn how to cook the way my father did — not because he taught me, but because grief has a funny way of making you crave his chili on cold nights. And that I’d one day find myself whispering, “a little more cumin,” the same way he did.
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