I look over my shoulder, expecting Pedro to come back into the kitchen to yell at me. But he’s gone to the bikes with the others carrying those boxes. I take deep breaths to calm my thoughts. It’s not like I cooked this. PC just asked me to keep an eye on it. That’s fine, I guess. I’m not breaking the decades-old pact.

It’s just...brigadeiro.

The bubbling increases. “Wooden spoon,” I say to myself, remembering what Mom said that night at Salt. I begin stirring. And then I stop. What if I’m not supposed to stir it? The bubbling intensifies, like the mixture is answering my question.

I go back to stirring, and the brigadeiro quiets, as if appeased.

Sweat is already running down my back. How hard can watching brigadeiro be? I think about Mom’s scrambled eggs and I remember that yes, it’s hard not letting food burn. I pull my phone out of my pocket in a panic and look up tips on how to know that brigadeiro is ready.

“...when it stops sticking to the bottom of the pan,” I read.

Oi?

How can something not stick to the bottom of a pan when it’s literally condensed milk? Will it float up like a cloud or something? Like magic?

The kitchen slowly fills with a strong aroma of chocolate. An elated smile spreads on my lips. It’s working. I haven’t ruined PC’s cooking. If I’m extra careful, like following the instructions to solve a mathematical problem, I think I can do this cooking thing.

The pan suddenly hisses at me.

I blink, startled.

I think I spoke too soon.

I try to turn off the stove, but the flame grows instead. It only takes a moment for me to turn the knob the other way to lower the flame, but it’s too late. Brigadeiro sticking to the sides of the pan starts turning black and brittle, and no matter how much I scrape at it with the spoon, that beautiful chocolate smell turns burnt.

I look at the door in a panic, praying PC will come back.

My heart matches the music he left playing in the background, and I stir faster, trying to unstick the mixture, or whatever unsticking means, before I burn it all.

I turn the stove off even though I’m not sure this thing is ready or not and reach for a plate to begin transferring the bubbling, spitting brigadeiro before I ruin it for good. But the pot is heavy, and I have a weak grip on the handle with my left hand. My wrist begins to cramp.

My right hand holds the plate, which is getting increasingly hot with the steaming brigadeiro I’m dumping on it.