Still, I push through, moving slowly toward the kitchen, where soft sunlight filters through the blinds, casting warm stripes of gold across the counter.
I began making my favorite breakfast—harina de maiz. The scent of cinnamon and sugar fills the air as the ingredients blend together, and instantly, I feel a wave of comfort. It smells like home.
It reminds me of early mornings with my mom and dad. My mom at the stove, my dad making jokes over his coffee, both of them insisting we sit together at the table, no matter how busy the day ahead would be. "Family is everything," she always said.
And she made sure I believed it, too. I’m so glad she did. Because when Papi died, I had something to hold onto. I had memories—so many beautiful ones. Stories I could tell. Moments I could replay in my mind, in my heart. It hurt to lose him, but man, I was lucky to have him.
I sit at the kitchen table, my bowl warm in my hands. The house is quiet. Too quiet. What I would give to hear them laughing together in the living room again, giggling like two kids in love.
I take a spoonful of the harina de maiz and let the warmth spread through me, the familiar taste a tether to something safe. To a different time, a different life.
Isn’t it crazy how food can transport you? Food has always been an expression of love in my family.
In sadness, in celebration, in the everyday—my mom made a meal, and we all sat together. We laughed, we ate, and we felt her love pouring into us with every bite.
It’s no wonder I found my own love in baking. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to Ruth’s bakery in the first place. Maybe, without even realizing it, I was searching for a piece of home in The Rolling Pin. I can’t believe Ruth closed her shop.
She talked about retiring for years, but I never thought it would actually happen. Not really. I guess I just assumed she’d always be there.
The Rolling Pin, a permanent fixture in Lake City, and Ruth, standing behind the counter with flour on her apron and a knowing smile on her face. But things change. People leave. Even the ones who feel like they never would.
Sometimes, I wonder if she was training me to take over. If every lesson, every critique, every gentle nudge toward perfection was her way of saying: This could be yours someday.
She didn’t have kids; there was no one to pass The Rolling Pin down to. I can’t imagine her selling it to just anyone. Would I have taken it? I don’t know.
Back then, all I wanted was to leave, to see the world, to chase something bigger than Lake City. I thought staying would mean settling. But now…now, I’m not so sure.
And then my phone rings. I glance at the screen, Anna, grateful for the distraction.
“Hey, Anna, what’s up?”
“Ugh, we’re having a bake sale at the school, and since Ruth retired and closed down her shop, it’s been a complete nightmare. I spaced and forgot to place the order at the shop in the next town over, and now I’m screwed. Help. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll kiss your feet.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Please don’t do that. Actually, I’ll only help you if you promise NOT to do that.”
“You got it! No feet kissing. But I do feel bad, especially being so last minute. Is there any way I can repay you?”
I pretend to think for a moment. “Well…”
“Name your price.”
“Ajiaco from Tía María will do the trick.”
“Done. You’re easy.”
I smirk. “That’s not something I hear all the time.”
Anna snorts.
“How many cupcakes do you need, anyway?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, hesitantly, she says, “So… don’t hate me, but we need 200 cupcakes.”
I nearly choke. “Two hundred?! By when?”
“…Tomorrow morning.”
