To me, there is nothing better in the world than a hot oven and a spice rack full of possibilities. Because like other kids were born for math or art or sports, I was born to bake. Maybe that was the start of it all, or maybe it was just a story Abuelita had made up. Every day after that, my mom gave me a spice to hold while she baked, and Abuelita swears that I always knew when to add just the right dash to every treat. Abuelita said I fell asleep in that sling clutching the cinnamon in my tiny little fist, and my mom’s capirotada finally came out perfect, all because of me. I started shaking that cinnamon like a rattle, and pretty soon I’d sprinkled it all over the bread. She’d been trying to get the recipe right for weeks, but it wasn’t working.

She was baking capirotada, a kind of Mexican bread pudding. I still cried constantly, until the morning Mom put a small shaker of cinnamon in my hand. My mom even made this sling for me so that she could hold me close while she baked. Apparently that means I cried for hours at a time for no reason at all. My abuelita loves to tell the story of how, when I was a newborn, I had colic. None of my friends could ever get away with using stove tops and ovens alone, but I’d been baking with my parents since before I could walk, so my dad had given me free reign in our kitchen long ago. When I was satisfied that I had everything ready, I turned on the oven. Drop a cold egg into hot butter and it curdles. Open an oven door too soon, and the cake falls. Surprise is the easiest way to ruin perfect baking. Everything had to be in place before I could start so there’d be no missed steps or surprises. I carefully laid out all of my measuring cups and spoons on the counter, then got my mixing bowls ready. So I knew he wouldn’t be hovering over me with his running commentary: “Alicia, you’re sifting the flour too quickly,” or “Don’t beat the eggs to death.” My five-year-old brother, Roberto, was still sleeping, and I could hear Abuelita Rosa snoring happily (and loudly) away in her bedroom.

My dad had left half an hour ago to go to work at our family bakery, Say It With Flour. In my pajamas, I tiptoed out of my bedroom and down the shadowy hallway. There was only one cure for that: baking. School was starting again after the two-week winter break, and my nerves knew it. I shut my eyes and tucked deeper into my covers, but it was no use.

My eyes opened onto a gleaming moon and stars outside my window, and I had that topsy-turvy feeling of being out of sync with time.

For Aunt Carol and Grandma Sue, two resilient women I admire and loveĭon’t miss this other delicious read by Suzanne Nelson!

Cake pop crush series