I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples. “Ave María, Anna.” I should have asked for more than just ajiaco. Two hundred cupcakes? Dios mio.
“I knowwwww. I’m sorry. Butttt, you love me, and you’re doing it for the kids!! Go kids!”
“Yeah, yeah. Go kids, all right.” I sigh, pushing my bowl away. “Let me go so I can get started on this crap ton of cupcakes.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mari! I owe you—seriously. I’ll have Mami throw in a batch of arepas con queso.”
I smile. “Now that’s an acceptable form of payment. I’ll drop them off at your school in the morning. Don’t worry, I got you.”
“Perfect! Thanks again.”
As soon as I hang up, I scan the kitchen.
I open the fridge. The pantry. If I’m going to bake 200 cupcakes, I need to start like yesterday.
I decide on three flavors—funfetti, strawberries and cream, and chocolate s’mores.
I begin gathering the ingredients—flour, eggs, sugar, butter, sprinkles. I grab a bowl of strawberries, their rich red color making my mouth water. I reach for the cocoa powder to make the chocolate s’mores cupcakes.
And then, something unexpected happens. I feel excited. Baking has always had a way of calming me, of making me feel lighter. The way my mom used cooking to show love? That’s how I feel about baking.
I feel like a chemist, making sure I measure the perfect amount of each ingredient—too much or too little, and everything falls apart. But it’s more than chemistry, it’s art.
And Ruth? Ruth was a damn artist; she created the most beautiful cakes and pastries, little bursts of sunshine in every bite. She taught me everything I know about baking. I spent countless hours watching her decorate elaborate cakes, her hands moving with an ease that seemed impossible.
Until one day, she handed me an apron and said, “You’ve done plenty of sitting around. It’s time to get those hands working.” And that was that. I learned how to bake, how to create.
The Rolling Pin became my second home. I sometimes wonder if maybe she was preparing me for something more. Maybe she wanted me to take over, but I was too busy wanting to leave. And if I hadn’t? Would I have ever met Andrew? My stomach twists.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away, and start baking.
Hours later, I’m finally finished. The last cupcake is frosted, the last container sealed shut.
I take a step back, brushing my hands off on my apron, and survey my work. Rows and rows of perfectly frosted cupcakes sit neatly in their containers, the air still thick with the scents of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberries.
The funfetti cupcakes look like tiny bursts of celebration. The strawberries and cream ones have a delicate swirl of pink frosting, light and airy. And the chocolate s’mores cupcakes? Dark, rich, and topped with toasted marshmallows. They came out exactly how I wanted. Maybe even better.
I hope the kids light up when they see these cupcakes, that they take that first bite and let out that little hum of happiness. That’s the best part of baking, seeing people enjoy something I made with my own hands.
I taste-tested everything, of course…strictly for quality control. Not because I couldn’t resist. Obviously.
And they taste amazing. I grin, but the moment I take in my surroundings, my smile falters. Oh. My. God. The kitchen is a disaster!
There’s flour on the counter, on the floor, and in my hair. A smear of pink frosting streaks across my forearm, and somehow, there’s even chocolate on the fridge handle. It looks like a bakery exploded in here.
And I’m not any better; I’m covered in it, too. My shirt has a powdered sugar handprint, my fingers are sticky with melted marshmallow, and my feet ache from standing for hours.
I stretch my arms above my head, rolling out my shoulders, but it does little to ease the soreness. I’m so tired. The sun is long gone now, and all I want is a hot shower, clean pajamas, a glass of wine, and a scary movie. That sounds like heaven.
But first? I need to clean up this disaster of a kitchen. I sigh, grabbing a dish towel and tossing it over my shoulder.
Tomorrow is going to be an early day, but I can’t wait.
For the first time in months, I woke up before my alarm. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, excited to get to the school and drop off these goodies. It’s nice to have something to look forward to.
I rush inside, several packages of cupcakes teetering in my arms. I can’t see over them, and honestly? I’m just praying I make it to Anna without tripping and sending 200 cupcakes flying across the hallway.
I tighten my grip, balancing the weight of the boxes as I carefully navigate through the school. My arms burn, my fingers dig into the cardboard, and I can feel the faintest tremble in my wrists. Just a few more steps. Keep it together, Mariana.
