Spice lesson

Carmen knocked on the door at noon with a canvas bag full of mysterious ingredients and way too much confidence in my ability to follow directions. “We’re making café de olla,” she announced, unpacking cinnamon sticks, star anise, and what looked like a small clay pot. “My abuela’s recipe.”

Spice lesson

Twenty minutes in and I’m pretty sure I’ve already violated at least three generations of family tradition. Carmen keeps saying things like “feel the cinnamon” and “listen to the bubbles” while I’m over here measuring everything with actual measuring spoons like some kind of amateur.

Apparently there’s a specific ratio of cinnamon to brown sugar. Who knew?

The spice breakdown session was enlightening. Turns out there’s a whole science to the ratios that Carmen learned by watching her grandmother’s hands, not by writing anything down. I’m taking notes like this is nursing school all over again, which is making her laugh so hard she can barely explain the next step.

The apartment smells incredible though. Even if this ends in disaster, at least we’ll have the best-smelling kitchen disaster in the building.