Vanilla-Scented Love

The day had awakened with an undefined, almost blurred light—like a dream.

Must be the effect of my own desire, Teresa thought.

At last, the long-dreamed moment had arrived: the moment she would prepare a feast to declare her love to the one who held her heart.

She had been raised among stoves and spices, and knew no better way to express affection than through cooking.

As always happened to her in the library, time slipped away while she deciphered recipes in search of those ingredients that make dishes unique.

She walked home across the same tiled path she took every day, but this time it felt as though the ground lifted her gently.

At the door, her fingers trembled, struggling to fit the key in the lock—nerves tightening every motion. She flew up the stairs in a rush, and in the blink of an eye, she was in the kitchen.

There, like hungry children, all the ingredients waited to be transformed by the alchemy of her touch.

She put on the apron she had so often seen her mother wear while performing culinary magic.

The moment it touched her skin, something stirred deep within.

As if the humble garment held all the secrets her mother had gathered over a lifetime, now seeping into Teresa through a delicate osmosis of knowledge.

Soft as a wisp of cotton candy, her mother’s voice brushed her ear from some distant place:

"Remember, my child, the secret of cooking lies in not rushing. Food needs time to reveal its best flavor, just as those who eat it need time to savor it. Magic will flow from your hands if you treat the ingredients with care. So don’t forget: slice the onion and leek into fine threads. Let the eggplant sweat out its bitterness in salt before it meets the fire. Allow the pepper, tarragon, and thyme to infuse the meat with their aromas. Let it be sea water that touches the fish last. And let saffron burst into fireworks when it meets the warmth of an infusion."

Teresa’s heart raced with the mere thought of her beloved’s face, traveling through the pleasure her hands were crafting—rescuing yolks from a cascade of whites sliding between her fingers, before they whipped into stiff peaks of meringue.

She longed to see his mouth delight in the taste,

as chocolate transported him to childhood, melting into an orange blossom memory of sponge cake.

His look of wonder when the truffle’s flecks revealed secrets hidden underground.

That cinnamon, coriander, and caraway would sail deep into his senses like a dry rainstorm.

He will melt for me like sugar in syrup, she thought,

as she gently wiped down the mushrooms, ready to confit them.

The house filled with all the aromas of life, and once again Teresa lost track of time—

as always happened when she became absorbed in the recipes she discovered in the library, tasting new flavors with the tip of her imagination.

She set the table with loving care: English porcelain edged in gold, crystal wine glasses, and a sprig of lavender placed atop white linen napkins.

When she looked at it all, it felt like a spring garden.

Overwhelmed by the moment, she collapsed into the rocking chair,

wrapped herself in her cinnamon-colored blanket, and almost without realizing, drifted into sleep.

A wisp of her thoughts still whispered: love smells like vanilla.

In a corner of the night, she thought she heard footsteps... and a voice calling her name.

She awoke with the first glimmers of dawn.

The light was clean, nearly transparent—

and in her mouth, the lingering sweetness that only the finest dreams leave behind.

Susana Muñoz C.