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Into the milk it went.
Add anise.
Such a small amount of 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.
From the prologue to The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister. Copyright Erica Bauermeister 2009. All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced without written permission from the publisher.
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