Chapter 3 — Flavors of Memory
Maris
The kitchen was alive with aromas of roasted garlic and thyme, wrapping Maris in a cocoon of familiarity. Sunlight filtered through the wide windows, dancing across the vibrant tiles her grandmother had installed decades ago—each one an echo of her heritage. The battered wooden countertop was dusted with flour, her fingers shaping the edges of a golden pastry dough into delicate crimps. At the heart of the kitchen sat the recipe box, its ornately carved surface softened by decades of reverent use. It was more than an object; it was a keeper of stories, a vessel of love and memory.
Maris ran her fingertips over the carvings, the grooves familiar and grounding. Sliding the lid open, she gently withdrew a recipe card. Its edges were worn, its ink faint but unmistakably her grandmother’s: elegant loops of cursive dancing across the page. She smiled faintly as her eyes settled on the title: *Tarte au Citron.* Beneath it, in her grandmother’s hand, was a scrawled note in French: *“L'acide équilibre le sucré, comme la vie.”*
“The acid balances the sweet, like life,” Maris murmured. Her voice was soft, yet the words seemed to resonate in the quiet air, as if her grandmother herself had whispered them. The phrase was familiar, but today it carried unexpected weight.
Her grandmother’s lessons had always been more than culinary. Each recipe was paired with truths wrapped in simplicity, as if every dish held the secret to navigating life’s complexities. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice now, warm and lilting: *“Remember, ma chérie, nothing worth savoring comes without a little sharpness.”*
A pang of longing rippled through her as she turned back to the lemons lined up on the counter. They gleamed in the sunlight, each one a vibrant burst of yellow. She reached for her zester, the sharp citrus scent blooming into the air as she peeled the bright skins. The tang cut through the buttery warmth already filling the kitchen, its sharpness grounding her as she worked.
Her rhythm was methodical, each movement deliberate—a whisk in hand, the eggs and sugar folding into a pale froth as the tart shell cooled nearby. Yet, for all the comfort these tasks should have brought, doubt crept in like an unwelcome guest. The cookbook, her heart’s tribute to her grandmother, felt impossibly daunting. How could she distill a lifetime of warmth, wisdom, and shared moments into mere pages?
Her chest tightened as another voice intruded, uninvited and sharp. *“You’re nothing without precision, Maris. Cooking is about control.”* Victor’s words cut through her like an old wound reopening, the edges still raw. Even here, in the sanctuary of her kitchen, his presence lingered, casting shadows over the light her grandmother had built.
Her grip on the whisk tightened, her knuckles whitening before she forced herself to release it with a shuddering breath. “No,” she whispered to the empty room, shaking her head. This wasn’t Victor’s kitchen. It was hers. And her grandmother had never once uttered the word *control.* Cooking was about love, about memory, about creating something greater than the sum of its parts.
Her gaze drifted to the corkboard above the counter. Among the clutter of clipped recipes and penciled notes was a faded photograph of her grandmother standing in a garden, a basket of lemons cradled in her arms. Her smile was serene, a quiet confidence radiating from her face. Maris let the image steady her, drawing strength from it.
The scent of lemons tugged her thoughts back to the park and the man—Eamon, she thought his name was—who had helped her gather her spilled cookies near the fountain. His quiet demeanor had intrigued her, his deliberate kindness offering a calm she hadn’t known she needed. There had been something grounding in his presence, a stillness that contrasted with the whirlwind of doubt she carried.
Her cheeks flushed as she realized her hand had paused mid-motion. She gave herself a small shake and poured the lemon mixture into the tart shell, sliding it into the oven. The warmth of the room deepened as she shut the door, the mingled scents of citrus and butter sweeping over her like a memory of sunlit afternoons spent in her grandmother’s care.
As the tart baked, Maris began wiping down the counters, her movements brisk but mindless. Her thoughts drifted again to the cookbook. What if she failed? What if the words and recipes she carefully crafted fell short, leaving her grandmother’s legacy diminished instead of honored? The weight of it pressed on her, heavy and inescapable.
The timer chimed, snapping her from her spiraling thoughts. She pulled on her grandmother’s well-worn oven mitts and opened the door. The tart emerged in a waft of golden warmth, its surface gleaming faintly, the caramelized edges crackling ever so slightly. It was, by all measures, perfect.
And yet, as Maris set it on the rack to cool, a hollowness clawed at her chest. The tart was flawless in appearance, but something felt missing—a soul, perhaps. Without the hands that had kneaded alongside hers, the laughter that had filled this kitchen in years past, it felt incomplete.
She sank into a chair at the table, her gaze falling once more to the recipe box. Rummaging inside, she unearthed a small, folded scrap of paper tucked between the cards. The edges were smudged, the ink faint but legible. Her grandmother’s handwriting curved in deliberate strokes:
*“La nourriture n'est pas seulement ce que nous mangeons; c'est ce que nous partageons.”*
“Food is not just what we eat; it’s what we share,” Maris whispered aloud, her voice catching on the last word. A knot loosened in her chest as the meaning unfurled. The tart wasn’t hollow—it was waiting. Waiting to be shared, to be infused with the connections and moments that gave it life beyond its ingredients. Her grandmother had always understood this truth, had lived it. Maybe it was time for Maris to embrace it too.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, its screen lighting up with a new message. She wiped her hands on her apron and picked it up, Reni’s name flashing at the top. The message read: *“Hey, darling. Park’s hosting a community bake-off next weekend. Bring something. We’d love to see you!”*
Maris hesitated, her thumb hovering over the keyboard as her stomach fluttered. A bake-off. The very idea filled her with tangled emotions—nerves twisting with a flicker of something warmer, something like hope. Her first instinct was to decline. She wasn’t ready yet, was she?
Her gaze shifted back to the tart, its golden surface glowing faintly in the late afternoon light. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind, steady and sure: *Food is what we share.*
Maris took a deep breath, her fingers tapping out a reply. *“I’ll be there.”*
As she hit send, the warmth of something new kindled within her. It wasn’t the end of her doubts, but it wasn’t their victory either. She glanced at the tart again, this time with a genuine, quiet smile. Whatever came next, she would face it—one recipe, one connection, one step at a time.
