Abuela used to get this look on her face
When we devoured her infamous flan
Creamy soft caramel-ly goodness that you could never have just one helping of even though it was rich and you’d already consumed an entire meal beforehand
It was pride and joy
And almost smug
Literally no one else in the world can make Abuela’s flan like she did
And I’ve tried flan all over the world. None compare. How could they?

I begged her to teach me
And one day while I was at uni
We spent a day
Writing down her recipes
How much? I would ask
You know, enough
She would say
Decades of experience and practice
Her recipes from memory
Even the utensils were older than me

And now it has been eight years since she died
And I’m still nervous when I make the flan
It has to live up to hers
There is a lot of pressure
It has to be right

And this year
I didn’t have a proper flan tin
Or Abuela’s ancient pressure cooker
(We did briefly consider the insta-pot, next year!)
But we did have a heart-shaped cake tin
And I made the caramel
The magic of sugar becoming liquid gold
And stirred the condensed milk and the sugar and the eggs
And baked it in the oven
And slid a knife around the edge
And turned it out of the tin without a single crack
And it tasted like heaven
Creamy soft caramel-ly goodness that you can’t have just one helping of even though it is rich and you’d already consumed an entire meal beforehand

I took the left-overs to work
And watched my friends have a taste
And I understood that look
That pride and joy
Almost smug
And felt Abuela
Standing beside me.