The warmth of the stove seeps through my clothes. The smells are all around me like a net—oregano, black pepper, and cheese coming from another frying pan, and the savory smell of sweet potatoes boiling in a pot behind.

This is nerve-racking.

Deliciously nerve-racking.

Usually, my anxiety is fully aware of every way I could mess up Mom’s cooking. But this time, I’m filled with excited butterflies.

The sizzling grows louder. Like a volcanic eruption. The other frying pan is beginning to smoke, too. The hot bubbles in the boiling pot filled with potatoes burst too close to my hand. Dangerous, I know. And yet I let my eyes fall closed, my ears picking up on the full symphony of cooking sounds all around me.

The metal spoon is getting hotter in my hand. Heat travels into my bloodstream. Fast. It feels electrified, like it’s forming a connection, and suddenly—

I’m not so alone anymore.

There’s a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I understand that the women in my life, past and present, are here with me.

Grandma isn’t truly gone. Not while Salt stands.

There’s a sudden pop, and my eyes shoot open.

Sizzling oil splashes at my wrist and stinging pain replaces my musing. I jump back in surprise and accidentally hit the pan’s handle. It all seems to happen in slow motion. I watch as the frying pan with the eggs goes flying off the stove, food splattering everywhere.

Mom’s screech pierces the air.

2

FRIDAY, APRIL 22

You’d think a girl like me would have had the best cooking training, right? But, like we say around here, casa de ferreiro, espeto de pau. The shoemaker’s children always go barefoot. Or, in my case, the baker’s child can’t bake...or cook...at all.

When I was a toddler, I used to wander into the kitchen to explore on my own. I was drawn to this magical world where Grandma seemed the happiest. While everyone slept, I would climb up a chair and perch on the counter, my legs tucked underneath me. An hour later, Grandma would wake up to find bed-haired, entranced baby-me busily scooping sugar or manioc farinha out of the bowl and pouring it on a spot by my side. Despite the mess, she’d never get mad.

Grandma would pick me up every time and whisper:

“You and I have a secret, minha pequena.”

In second grade, I got into gathering flowers and leaves so I could crush them with the mortar and pestle I’d taken from the kitchen. I’d add water and pretend I was making the most lavish soup, trying my best to emulate Grandma’s cooking. It was the best game I’d ever invented, until a bunch of kids saw me.

“What’s that nasty thing?” they asked me.

“It’s soup,” I said. “And it’s not nasty.”