The Flavor of the Past

A bright girl broke through steady, warm hands as she rushed forwards, excitement bubbling from her small body. Her chubby hands grappled at the overhang of the counter in an attempt to pull herself up. 

“Meiling, wait a second!” a deep voice chastised. Grandpa slapped her hands away, to which she began jumping and wailing. “You can’t! The pan is still hot!” When her frown refused to subside, he took a napkin and delicately peeled a fresh cookie off the foil. He gently broke the cookie into two and handed her the bigger half. 

Outstretched hands accepted the piece hurriedly, and her cheeks were soon stretched full of the baked good. “MMPH!” she yelled in approval, crumbs sputtering out her mouth. 

Grandpa grabbed another napkin from the counter, laughing. “Slow down, miss!” he smiled, brushing the crumbs off her face and hands. “You made amazing cookies this time! You can get the other half after dinner.”

Her face contorted as she swallowed the cookie whole, and she looked up at Grandpa with a shining smile. “Okay!”

15 years later

“Grandpa, I’m home!” Meiling propped her hand against the handle, taking care to prevent the door from slamming. She let go at the gentle click that announced its closure, staring uneasily at the dull confounding door lock that had been in use for the past two years. Despite it being an essential to her home now, it still pained her to use it. She hesitated for a brief moment and reluctantly latched it.

She carried her bag over to the kitchen and began unpacking the goods that she had gathered from her run to the grocery store, fingers flitting through the pink vouchers that she would use on her next trip to the asian market. Six of them. She could buy a couple boxes of cranberry jelly cookies with these – they were some of Grandpa’s favorites. 

She proceeded to take out the final purchases from her trip, a small bottle of cream of tartar and a box of baking soda, listening to the dull murmur of the TV from the room over. It seemed they were moving onto the afternoon weather broadcast. She had enjoyed watching those with Grandpa when she was younger. They would sit close together, trying to guess the forecast of each city and tallying up points for whoever was closer. She had won a lot. Though, with careful reflection, she realized that Grandpa had likely made bizarre guesses to reward her with free wins.

When she finished putting her groceries away, she pulled out some old items from her cabinets and went over the process in her head like she had done the night before. 1 cup of softened, unsalted butter – she carefully cut a cube from the stick and warmed it over a low fire. Next, two delicately cracked eggs in a bowl – the slippery yolk left a trail of translucent fluid in its wake. 2 teaspoons of vanilla, 2 3/4 cups of flour, 1 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, a teaspoon of salt… finally, the sugar was mixed in.

She rolled the freshly made batter between her palms, reminiscing the times that she baked these exact cookies with Grandpa. He would let her make the mixture herself, but her arm would get tired, and he would gently take the spoon from her and finish adding the ingredients while she ran off to catch a glimpse of the TV. Sometimes she would add too much flour, and the batter she rolled in her hands would become weak and crumbly and scatter a mess onto her clothes. Other times, she would add a tad too many drops of vanilla that left a lingering smell on her fingers till the next morning.

She smiled. It had been a long time since she stood here, rolling batter between her palms. Now she was 23 years old, and her heart broke at the thought of the times she took for granted.

She closed her eyes to recall the next step. Next was the cinnamon mix, to be sprinkled on top; she was surprised to have found some hidden away in her cabinets last night. After all, it had been years since she last baked. At the sharp smell of spice that tickled her nose, a wave of nostalgia wash over her once again. She eagerly grabbed the bowl and rushed to the living room, where she was greeted by the sight of a shell, the shell of an old man, seated on a grey armchair. His empty gaze remained fixated on the television. It left flickers of blue light in the dimly lit room, and they bounced weakly off of the walls, making the space feel smaller. 

He looked up. “Who are you?” he grunted, shying away from her as she approached. 

She smiled halfheartedly. “I’m Meiling, your granddaughter. When Father and Mother were too busy with work, you came over to take care of me since I was five years old. We baked cookies together, all the time, and our favorite to make were snickerdoodles. Now I am 23 years old, and you are 81, and mother and father moved to Canada after I graduated. Now I am taking care of you,” she recited for the second time that day, and extended her arm.

“Smell this. Perhaps you will remember when we made cookies together when I was just a child.” She held the bowl under his chin, and his breathing picked up just slightly, to which she assumed was his attempt at taking in the smell. His breath suddenly hitched.

“Mmph!” he coughed, a scowl forming on his face. “Why, you, you girl!” The cinnamon blew up in a small cloud, and Meiling quickly put the bowl aside and patted his face with a wet cloth. 

“Oh, Grandpa! I’m sorry I made you smell that. I should have known your lungs are already weak. I’ll get you some water.” She hurried out of the room. When she was sure that she wasn’t in his line of sight anymore, she released a breath that she had been holding and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. 

She couldn’t afford to be frustrated at something neither of them had control over. She couldn’t even bring herself to be frustrated at her grandfather, after everything he’d done for her. His severe Alzheimer’s had created a rift in their relationship, but she would always remember him as the person he used to be. She knew his old self was still inside him somewhere.

She regained her composure and returned to the room. Frail, shaking hands received the glass of water from her, and he eyed her from the side as he took a gulp. Meiling brought the half-full cup back to the kitchen, taking the cinnamon mixture with her. 

15 minutes later, when the cookies had visibly risen and small air bubbles had formed in the center, she took the oven mitts that had once been far too large for her small hands and slid the pan out of the oven. The warmth radiated onto her face.

She peeled at the edge of the cookie with care, and she wasn’t sure if it was just her imagination, but she had remembered it being a lot softer. Surely she couldn’t have gotten the recipe wrong, could she? Yet, when she took another bite, she couldn’t help but frown at its dull sweetness. Perhaps with time, the sweet flavor she had once perceived to be so overpowering was made bland by her maturing taste buds. 

A brief taste later, and she reassured herself that it was still the same cookie. The cinnamon spice gently pervaded her mouth, electrifying her senses; this had to be the cookie that she had spent so much time making with Grandpa.

She piled two cookies onto an ornate, porcelain plate and carried it out to the living room.

“Grandpa,” she coaxed gently, holding the plate out to the snoozing man. “Wake up and have a taste. Do you remember when we made these together? I would always mess up. You would have to start my batch over again, because I would add too much flour.” 

Glassy eyes turned toward her, a turmoil of emotion raging in its depths. He took a careful bite. “Why are you here?” he asked, dropping the cookie onto the plate. It clattered and showered bits of sugar onto his lap.

Meiling ignored him, opting to fix her gaze on the television. “Sometimes, I would add too little flour, and my mixture would have too much moisture. It would become sticky, and I wouldn’t know where to wipe my hands,” she laughed. “And I always wanted to sprinkle more cinnamon on top than necessary!” She paused, her eyes searching his, trying to gauge his reaction.

He didn’t respond, but instead extended his hands outstretched with the plate. She took it as a sign of his distaste and took it from him, trying to suppress her disappointment. As she turned away, she heard a grunt and whipped around. “Honey,” he murmured, barely audible. Meiling cocked her head. Grandpa had never called her that before.

“Honey,” he repeated, and she leaned in closer. 

“What is it?” she inquired, slightly frustrated. “Do you want the cookies back?”

“It needs honey,” he muttered, louder this time. Her eyes widened, and a smile broke out across her face. 

“Of course, Grandpa! I’ll be right back!” She dashed out of the room, heart buzzing with a feeling she couldn’t describe. It had been weeks since he had formed a coherent reaction to the things she brought to him, months since she had heard him form a sentence that wasn’t laced with scathing words... and it was almost a year since he had shown any sign of remembering their past together. Perhaps the feeling that was bubbling in her chest was more than just surprise. Her heart clenched. Oh, how she loved him so much.

When she completed the second batch of cookies, now with a dose of honey which she was beginning to faintly recall was what Grandpa used to refer to as the “secret ingredient” (followed by a knowing wink), she delicately peeled a fresh snickerdoodle off the foil and set it once again on a new plate. 

She watched as he took a large bite.

Suddenly, the frown that had been etched into his forehead smoothed out, and his eyes flashed with recognition. He smiled, crumbs tumbling out of his mouth, and he made a muffled sound of delight. His face seemed to glow, radiating a joy Meiling had thought she’d never get to see from the moment the doctor had declared he had fallen far into the moderate stage of Alzheimer’s, and her heart clenched tighter.

Grandpa took another bite, and yet another one, youth pervading through his expression as he scarfed down the pastries he had once made for his granddaughter. Memories flooded back into him as the warm taste of honey mixed in with the strong flavor of cinnamon, tugging at his heart and spreading throughout his body. He was reminded of his youth, of his beautiful wife, and of their adventurous daughter whose dream was always to travel the world. He remembered the birth of his granddaughter, his beautiful granddaughter, and how he had wanted nothing else but to spend every waking moment with her. He was reminded of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and even the spring season in which he took cranberry biscuits to the park with her in a woven basket. 

He was reminded of… “Meiling,” he whispered.

Her breath hitched in her throat and tears formed in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. 

“Grandpa,” she breathed with disbelief, and she leaned in to embrace him. Tears flooded down her face when he moved to embrace her back, crying at his comforting scent that she had missed for years, crying with relief that she still had a spot in his heart. 

“Yes, Grandpa,” she cried. “It’s me, Meiling.”

The faint smell of cinnamon and honey washed over the two as they held each other tight, drinking in the moment and reveling in the memories of their past.