It was my seventeen birthday. My family lived in Havana, Cuba. I got up from bed, and the instant I hit the bedroom door a comforting, smooth and sweet aroma of coffee and warmth invaded my senses. I was craving it. I did not like the weather. It was drizzling and I felt the chilly wind coming through my window. What to expect in the middle of October? We were going to my grandparents’ house to celebrate. I bet Mima had something specially prepared, perhaps one of my favorite desserts. My parents and I took the bus. Jeez, I hate busses. The people there felt the necessity to touch you, even if the bus was completely empty, they found ways to have their hand all over you. It was disgusting. Thank God we arrived safe and sound. The moment I stepped inside my grandparents’ house, there was the familiar scent of apple candle and a flowering plant I have not found the name for. All have been the same since last time I was here. The walls were the identical light yellow, the brown and soft couch set in the spot under the colorful landscape artwork and photos of my cousins and I were at every corner. My cousins, aunts and uncles were all here. “Happy Birthdays” floated in the air with hugs and kisses. It felt good. It felt like home. I looked around twice, noticing my two grandmas were missing. The kitchen. They were both in there, of course, sitting at the table, kneading dough. The kitchen was always my safe haven. I would hide in there, in a small nook between the antique refrigerator and a wall, and picked pieces of everything Mima (my great-grandmother) was cooking. She would ground me, but who cares?
They were making buñuelos! I knew it the second Mami (my grandma) smiled at me. They know me so well. I sat beside them and watched them cook. I could taste and smell the sweetness and mouth-watering combination of the yucca dough and the sugar syrup. A