Pedro picks up a knife and goes for the corn cake right away, but he seems to think better of it. He puts the knife down and looks at me, making intentional eye contact for the first time today. “Do you want to cut your cake?” he asks me.

I take a deep breath and cut a slice, taking a bite of the very first cake I ever baked by myself.

I taste the warmth of cinnamon right away, reminding me of home, and I look for the memories that this recipe has always provided. Grandma’s Sunday morning cooking with her neighborhood friends, chatting and gossiping. Salt packed with customers. Children begging their parents for another slice.

But then the flavor veers abruptly into all the Parmesan cheese I added with my eyes closed, and I’m left feeling my way out in the dark, none of my old memories there to guide me. This cake has a much stronger cheesy flavor than Grandma’s version.

Although it isn’t bad, it’s not Grandma’s recipe.

My eyes sting with tears. I look away before the others notice I’m hurt.

Cintia hands me a slice of Pedro’s bolo de rolo, and I stuff my face with it quickly, letting the tanginess of guava roll over my tongue, washing over any hint of the Parmesan in my corn cake. The crunch of sugar granules is perfect. The delicate layers miraculously hold together. No wonder this cake has been Sugar’s pride for generations.

I see Pedro nibble on his slice of corn cake, and he quickly puts the plate down. He hated it.

“What are we taking to Vozes for the fundraiser?” Cintia asks. “Should we vote? Who votes for the corn cake?”

Pedro and I both come from families of bakers, but while he can recreate his family’s recipe perfectly, I can’t recreate mine. What am I doing?

“My cake isn’t right,” I say, stopping them from voting.

“Don’t worry that it burned a little bit,” Cintia says, failing to hide that she’s just trying to make me feel better. “I think I understand the flavor—”

My face goes hot. “I don’t need pity votes.”

Her eyes widen with worry. “It’s not a pity vote.”

“I messed up my grandmother’s recipe!”

The tears I’d been holding back freely roll down my face. I keep thinking of Mom yelling at me every time I offer to help at Salt, reminding me that I can’t bake.

“It’s still a good cake,” Victor says, but I don’t want to hear it.

“I’m a fraud!” I say. “I can’t cook! I can’t bake! I can’t—I just can’t!”