I didn’t expect the caramel to fight back.
I stood over the stove, stirring sugar and water, waiting for it to darken into midnight amber like I remembered. But it stayed pale and stubborn, no matter how closely I followed the instructions.
Eventually, I had to call my mom in. She took the spoon from my hand like I was six again, not in my 30s. She cranked the heat, added a little more sugar, and coaxed the caramel into existence with the patience of someone who’s done this a thousand times. And suddenly, I was watching her hands, not the pan—hands that had once held mine in the kitchen while Lita hummed love into our food.
I added guava this time because it’s my favorite fruit. A soft, sweet swirl that transports me under the canopy of palm trees. Of summers with my grandma, of home cooked meals and treats. Lita’s love language for us was full bellies.
Always food.
We are losing her now, slowly.
I’m trying to hold onto her in every way I can, and somehow, this flan comforts me more than anything else. In the act of making it, I feel close to her. I’m so glad my cousin Tiffany took the time to write down the recipe! All her cooking has only come from memory and experiences but now we get to share it. Making her flan felt like communion with all the versions of her that raised me: housewife, caretaker, magician of the stove. In the rich, custardy bite, I remember how she loves us—through full plates, warm kitchens, and an open seat at the table.
I didn’t realize how much I needed this.
To make something with her spirit in it.
To be reminded that love, when given with care, outlives the body that carries it.
This flan will stay with me.
It will be how I pass her down.
It will be how I teach my children what love tastes like.
Food holds us. It remembers for us. It shows us where we come from when we’re afraid of forgetting.
And if I close my eyes and take a bite, she’s here, loving me.
