Don't Forget the Vanilla

“Oh, hello Suzie. It’s wonderful to see you.” She’s old and small, smaller than I remember. But plucky. Hasn’t lost a step.

“Hi, mom. How are they treating you?”

“Like a caged baboon, that’s how. I asked them to put on Lawrence Welk but they didn’t. Got me stuck with needles and tubes, I feel like the Bionic Woman. I mean what’s this thing for?” She holds up the pulse oximeter on her finger.

“I think it monitors your heart,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Lotta good that’s done me.”

“Fifty-seven years today, you and dad.”

“Sure if he hadn't kicked it in ‘93.”

“Still, happy anniversary.” I pick up the cake holder and remove the plastic top. Chocolate cake with chocolate cream cheese frosting. Just like she taught me. She pushes the spectacles attached to their beaded chain up the bridge of her nose and inspects my handiwork.

“Use a cake mix, did ya? Betty Crocker?”

“No, it’s from scratch.”

“Good. That Betty was a big ol’ B.”

“Betty Crocker’s not real mom.”

“Well, if she was, she woulda been.”

“It’s not a mix. I followed your recipe.”

“Mmhmm,” she says inspecting the cake. She rotates it to make sure the icing is even. She looks for any lopsided edges or slippage. There is none. The cake is perfect. I made sure of it. I made it three times.

“Would you like a slice?”

“Go on then.”

I cut her a big piece - good or bad, if it’s cake, she’ll take nothing less - and place it on one of the paper plates I had brought. She inspects the slice further, pokes it with the fork to test its bounce, scrapes off a bit of the frosting and gives a hesitant taste, as if expecting to be disappointed. She usually is.

“Cake is spongy.”

“Yea, I didn’t overmix it this time.”

“You didn’t use margarine, did you?”

“No, mom. I used butter.”

“Because margarine was created by…”

“Was created by spacemen to clog your tubes.”

“Well, at least I’ve taught you something.”

“You never specified which tubes though, mom. Your arteries? Colon?

“All of ‘em. It’s a plot. They want the butter for themselves.

“The spacemen?”

“The spacemen, the politicians. Because butter keeps the tubes lubed. Keeps ya regulated. Healthy.”

“It does the exact opposite of that.”

“Well,” she says, “at least it tastes good.” She shovels a big forkful of cake into her mouth and chomps loudly. Her eyes glaze over and I can see that she’s content. I smile and grab a piece for myself. We sit there chewing in silence. This is the best cake I’ve ever made. She taught me how to bake when I was little, convinced me it was my idea. Even then, everything had to be just so. I couldn’t use an electric mixer, had to mix by hand with a wooden spoon. Beech wood. Stir forty-three times.

“Not bad, kid,” she says after clearing her plate, “but you didn’t use Mexican vanilla.”

“Oh, not the vanilla,” I say, suddenly flustered, “it doesn’t make a difference.”

“It’s the secret ingredient,” she says, smacking me on the nose with her fork. Great, now I’ve got chocolate cake on my nose. I wipe it off on my sleeve. I’ll deal with the stain later.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I was awakened to the magic of Mexican vanilla?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She squints her eyes as she falls back into herself. “It must have been for our - let’s see - twenty-first anniversary. Yes, I think that’s right because it would have been 1985. I remember because your father kept making that joke that we were finally old enough to drink. Yeah, it didn’t make sense then either. We were visiting Mexico City. We spent the first two days around the toilet. Developed a close kinship with the almighty Imodium. On the third day, we finally made our way into the city. The first thing we went to see - and this was your father’s idea - was the cathedral. I tell ya what, if you ever find yourself south of the border, that is something to see. I’ve never been close with that Jesus fella but he’s got some nice buildings. It was the middle of September and boiling hot. I had to do some dips just to air it out.”

“Jeez, mom.”

“Sorry. Anyway, pouring sweat. Can’t drink the water without squeezing out a lung. So, we decided to take a bicitaxi to the market, La Merced. We found God, not in that very pretty cathedral, but in a small kiosk at the entrance of the market. A very tired and very sweaty young twenty-something peddling sweet salvation. Bottled water. Hallelujah. After downing the bottle and picking up a couple for the road, we entered the main hall. I think the word dense is apt. Like your cakes... usually.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“You had to throw punches just to get through, there were so many people crammed in there. I’ve never been a fan of crowds. Big “personal space” girl, myself. So your father was leading us through with his arm out to give us two feet of breathing room. On either side of us were kiosks selling all manner of stuff: grapefruit, chilis, corn - more corn than you’ve ever seen in your life. And one guy selling beepers. He wasn’t doing too good. Your father picked up a tangerine, peeled the skin and was about to take a bite before I smacked it out of his hands. I had to explain to him that if we can’t drink the water and they use the water for the plants then perhaps we shouldn’t eat the fruit either. See, you get your looks from your father but you get your brains from me. You're welcome.”

“He worked for NASA,” I reply, “he was literally a rocket scientist.”

“Yeah, a moron. So in the back of the market there was this one kiosk that was by some miracle tucked all alone into a corner. It stood out since it wasn’t squished between everything like everything else was. Standing behind it was a nun. I know, right. Somebody trying to tell me something. She explained to us that she had just moved from Guadalajara into the monastery and was giving away jericallas, which were these little custard cups with the tops burned a golden brown. It’s like if crème brûlée and flan made a light and creamy baby. And let me tell you girl, it was incredible. I asked her what was in it. You know what she said? Eggs, milk, sugar. Uh-uh. I wasn’t having it. I said, “No, there’s something else going on here.” And she told me it was the vanilla. See, Mexican vanilla is different from other types of vanilla. It’s smooth and creamy and has hints of - I don’t know - like, clove, I guess. She gave me a couple of beans and I stuffed them into my purse.

“We saw her again later that night when we returned to the Zócalo. There was a big fiesta. I thought there were a lot of people during the day. It was nothing compared to that night. There was music and dancing and costumes and your father was totally out of place. It was amazing. We stuffed ourselves with carnitas. Eventually, I convinced your father to dance. He tried. It was cute. We danced into the night such that we didn’t notice the sun come up.

“In the morning, the earthquake hit. The ground felt like it was slipping away from beneath me. Buildings fell down. People panicked. Up the road, we saw the nun directing traffic into the monastery. Jesus buildings are built to last. We made our way inside. She sat and prayed with us and I can’t tell you how thankful I was for her. I’ve never been close to that Jesus fella but He was there when I needed Him. The quake only lasted around five minutes but it might as well have been a lifetime, cliche as that sounds.

“We were on the next plane back to the states. I forgot all about those vanilla beans in my purse. A couple of days later I found them and decided to make my chocolate cake recipe with them. It was smooth and creamy and nutty. It was the best thing I’ve ever made. And that’s why you don’t forget the vanilla.”

She finishes and her thoughts fall back behind her eyes, a smile cracks at the creases. The smile fades and is gone. She blinks. And blinks. And blinks some more. She looks at me and seems to notice.

“Oh, hello Suzie. It’s wonderful to see you,” she says blankly.

“It’s good to see you too, mom. I was just stopping by. I’ll visit you next week,” I tell her, “for your anniversary.”