The Taste of Resilience

Pilar has been absent-mindedly mixing the paella, and the familiar motions are a small comfort in her current tumultuous life. Her friends loved her paella and made every excuse for her to cook it. Pilar, being a true Spaniard, of course, accommodated them, after the necessary pleading…. The recipe has been running in the family for generations, mouth to mouth, never written down, as if the secret needed to be safeguarded. Pilar had the recipe passed down by her grandmother, Dolores, who did not trust her own daughter's cooking skills and skipped her in favour of her granddaughter.

What Pilar's friends did not know was that Dolores was the true queen of the paella and that Pilar only made a poor imitation of it. Nevertheless, they adored Pilar's paella and were constantly asking for it. Pilar, on the other hand, regretted that she had not perfected the recipe while her grandmother was alive and always felt guilty that she fell short of the expectations of the Fernández family secret.

Once, when she was just 16, she had asked her grandmother why her paella did not taste the same and Dolores laughed and said: "The paella is like life, you throw everything in the pan and hope for the best. When you reach my age and have gathered many experiences, then your paella will taste as mine, maybe even better".

Now, at 32, Pilar stood alone in her kitchen, stirring the saffron-tinted rice, wondering if her recent experience was what her grandmother had meant. The apartment felt empty and silent, now that Miguel moved out after being together for three years; his excuses were rather ridiculous. He did not even have the decency to come clean and explain himself properly. He fled as fast as he could, leaving her perplexed and void. Their breakup, a week ago, had left Pilar feeling empty, questioning everything she thought she knew about love and life. She had thought she had found the ONE, but obviously, he did not think the same.

She hadn't planned on making paella tonight. In fact, she hadn't planned on eating at all. After a long day at work that left her drained since she had to fake normality for 10 hours straight, she'd sat on the couch, staring blankly at the walls. Then her grandmother's voice echoed in her mind: "When life gives you sorrow, you make paella."

So here she was, going through the recipe she knew by heart, even if she'd never quite mastered it. As she added the shrimp and mussels to the pan, a tear slipped down her cheek, falling silently into the sizzling rice. Pilar froze, watching the tiny droplet disappear into the paella. For a moment, she was transported back to her grandmother's kitchen, the scent of saffron and the sound of Dolores' laughter filling the air, many many years ago, even before grandpa had passed over.

"Abuela," young Pilar had asked, watching her grandmother secretly wipe away tears (of joy or sadness, she could not tell), as she cooked, "doesn't crying into the food make it taste of sadness?"

Dolores had simply smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Ah, mi niña, tears are just salt and water. And what is life but a mix of sorrow and joy? The secret is in how you stir it all together."

Back in her own kitchen, Pilar looked down at the paella, really seeing it for the first time that evening. The rice glistened, absorbing not just the rich flavours of saffron and seafood, but also the salt of her tears, the bitterness of her heartbreak. As she stirred, more tears fell, but Pilar didn't care; she didn't even try to stop them. She thought of Miguel, of their shuttered common dreams and their fleeting future. She thought of her grandmother, of all the life and love and loss Dolores must have experienced in her long years. And she thought of herself, standing here, cooking through her pain, hoping that this too would pass.

As she cooked, Pilar began to, unconsciously, hum an old song her grandmother used to whisper softly, each time she cooked, like a prayer. The melody felt rusty on her lips, but as her voice rose, the tune filled the kitchen and Pilar felt something shift inside her. Her grandmother's spirit reborn slipped into existence, slowly transforming Pillar. She expertly added the final touch: a pinch of pimentón, its smoky notes mingling with the salty-sweet scent of her tears. The aroma rising from the pan began to change, deepen and transmute, almost like sorcery.

When the paella was finally ready, Pilar served herself a small portion, more out of habit than hunger. She took a bite, and her senses were flooded with flavour. The rice was perfectly cooked, each grain distinct yet creamy. The seafood was succulent and the vegetables tender-crisp; and underneath it all was a depth of flavour she had never before achieved – rich, complex, and hauntingly familiar. It tasted like her grandmother's paella. At that moment Pillar realised that the ache in her chest hadn't disappeared, but it changed into something soothing, almost... nourishing.

Pilar sat at her small kitchen table, savouring each bite as tears continued to fall – a mix of sorrow, joy, and understanding. With each mouthful, memories of Dolores flooded back, vivid and comforting. She brought along an army of past Fernández women, who were now ready to fight by her side, united.

As she finished her meal, Pilar felt a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with the food. She put the leftover paella away, wrapped with care; she would take it to work and share it with her colleagues. She wanted to spread her strength, her secret ingredient, even if they would never understand.

Before bed, Pilar caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but her gaze was stronger and more determined. She smiled.

"Gracias, abuela," she whispered before a deep sleep came.

That night, Pilar dreamt of a kitchen filled with laughter and tears, where endless generations of Fernández women stirred golden pans of rice. Each one added one ingredient before passing it to the next. She was the last one in line, for now... In her sleep, she smiled again.

In the morning, Pilar woke feeling lighter. She moved around her kitchen, preparing coffee, her grandmother's old tune still lodged on her lips, like a mantra. As the rich aroma filled the air, Pilar dove into the fridge and grabbed the leftover paella. For a moment, she stood still, the container in her arms, like a precious treasure she undug and was determined to bring to light.

On her way out, she took a long piercing look in the mirror and nodded to herself, thankful for the past and confident about her future. She was determined to face whatever the day might bring, one paella at a time.