With Love

Tiana’s dad blustered in, cold air rushing in behind him before Tiana shut the door. He pulled his mask down and flopped, exhausted at the dining table. Setting down some mince pies, Tiana sat opposite him, eyebrow raised. “Done for the week?”  

He nodded, mouth full as he spoke. “Finally. Now we can get some holiday movies down!” They laughed. It’s been a busy festive season: Tiana’s parents worked at the community centre, setting up care and shelter for the vulnerable. As with Christmas, it became very busy, and also very apparent the amount of people who didn’t have anywhere to go for the holidays. Tiana’s mother never failed to drum this into her: you are very, very lucky. Don't ever forget that. You gotta give that love back into the universe, because there wouldn’t be a world without love. 

“Your mom’s still out at the main office?” Tiana nodded, getting up to clear the table. “She said she'd be back early to start on dinner, but I’m not sure anymore... I might have to find a quick recipe...” 

Tia’s dad sat back, eyes shutting. “You’ve had a busy day at the café, we can order in. I’m so knackered I doubt if I’ll even be awake to eat.”  

He reopened an eye, voice lowering. “And your grandma?” 

Tiana turned away from the recipe book and glanced through the kitchen door at the door at the end of the hallway. It is shut tight. “Still not speaking. I tried to get her to eat a little, but she only wants those animal crackers.” Her voice cracked. “Like Grandpa liked.” 

Her dad smiled sadly. “Just like him. Except I know he wouldn’t want her eating a snack as food. A travesty, he’d call it.” Tia laughed, even as tears formed.  

There were always reasons to be grateful, as her mother taught her, but this year there were even more reasons: they’d only lost one person in their family to the coronavirus. Even though it’d be four months tomorrow, his absence was still raw. They were all doing better, especially her darling mamma, who’d picked herself right back up after a week, but Grams? She’d shut down, from a sweet, quiet woman to an empty, mute shadow. Tia’s mom tried to speak to her, but she refused to communicate beyond gestures.

Tia bit her lip and wiped her eyes discreetly, looking back at their recipe book. It was her grandad’s; he was the one who made her fall in love with baking, taking her under his wing at his café. She was by no means an expert: she had a bad habit of forgetting things in the oven, but! She did make a mean apple pie. The first dish he taught her to bake. 

“It’s going to be so hard this year. Remember his Christmas pumpkin pie? He always said pumpkins and thankfulness weren’t exclusive to a day in November.” Her dad laughed. “We never had the ingredients, but he’d go out, find them all, and bake it in time for dinner.” He shook his head. “Man. That pie helped me when I was trying to win over your mom, all I had to do was try it and he...” 

Pie... 

Tiana flipped frantically through the book. It had to be in here. It just had to... she hauled the book over to the dining table where the light was better, scanning each page with increasing fervour. Her dad watched her sceptically. “Tia?” She ignored him. C’mon, gramps... she turned to the last page, and her last shred of hope died. Lemon meringue pie. Not pumpkin pie. She buried her head in her hands. 

“Tiana?”  

Eyes covered, she mumbled, “I thought I'd make his pumpkin pie, or at least a close replica, for Grams. You know, so she would come out and eat? And feel happy, like he’s still here?” 

Her dad lifted her head with a hand. She looked at him, dejected. “That’s a wonderful idea, darling. I’m so proud to have such a thoughtful daughter.” He ruffled her curls, and she smiled briefly before frowning again. “How am I meant to, though? He didn’t write it down. I only know the kind of pumpkins he’d use, the one’s from Sal’s, because I’d go pick them for him.” She bit back a smile. “But that’s all I know. And he never even baked it here – it was always at the community centre, to surprise Grams and give people there.” She sighed. “I can’t make a pie based off the internet. Grams would smell it from a mile away.” 

“You can go find the ingredients from the people he got them from, and bake where he did.” She blinked. “What?”  

“I just told you, he never had the ingredients prepared beforehand. He'd get everything fresh, the day of, from our neighbours and the gang at the community centre. You remember that?”  

“Right...” 

“So, head on over there! Go ask everyone! Someone will definitely be able to help you out.” He handed Tia his keys. Her eyebrows shoot into her curls. “What’s the catch? I know it’d take more than a missing recipe for you to give me your keys.” 

He smiled widely. “There are some last-minute deliveries I forgot to make for your mom. Her yearly festive hampers? Yeah, I might’ve been just so tired I forgot to drop them off...” 

Tia rolled her eyes, but stood, reaching for her jacket. “Sure, Dad.” 

“That’s my girl. And, hey.” Tia looked up from tugging on her fluffy boots. “Don’t feel bad if you can’t find the recipe, or if it doesn’t come out right. Grandma Chi will get better with time, pies or none.” 

She blew him a kiss as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. “I know. I just want to try. For us, for her, and for him.” She looked out the window, exhaled, and opened the door. The wintry air blew into her face. “Okay. Love you, see you in a few... hours?” 

“Take your time, honey.” He was already lying on the couch, cap over his face. “Don’t forget your mask!” 

Ugh, she still managed to forget. Sighing, she grabbed one from the coat rack. “Thank you!” 

* 

“Ah, marhaba, Tia! How are you, habibi?” Jordan’s mom exclaims as she opens the door, headscarf wrapped around her head and mouth as a buffer to the cold.  

Tia laughed bashfully behind the basket before setting it down, just inside the open door. “Hi, Auntie. I’m fine. I haven’t seen you around the café in ages.” 

“Oh, you know how it is. It’s barely safe, you poor things shouldn’t even be working. I’ve been so busy at the mosque and the centre I didn’t send Jordan to order. We still love your apple pies, don’t forget, amira.”  

Tiana laughed. Amira, or Princess Tiana became her nickname when her grandpa had first introduced her and her stall at the summer fair two years ago to the Azizs’ - fresh in town, and her grandpa ever the kindly soul, guided them around, showing them to each table. Mrs Aziz (“I’m your Aunt Cam now, don’t call me Ms, I won’t answer you”), her son Jordan, and the youngest, Laila had been her first customers. She’d nervously offered them her pie. Laila had stuffed it in her mouth and proclaimed, “You’re like Princess Tiana!” They’d all laughed; her nerves broke, the nickname stuck, and their families became fast friends. 

Auntie Cam seemed to remember this too, brow creasing as she looked at the basket. “How is your grandma doing?” 

Tiana wrinkled her nose, remembered no one could see her expression under her mask, and spoke quietly instead. “Not great. I think she’s eating more... but she’s still so sad.” 

Auntie shook her head, mumbling a prayer in Arabic. “God give her strength. Do you want to come in and talk about it? I have chai on the table.” 

Tiana straightened up, blinking her watery eyes. “No, I’m actually running errands for Mom. Dropping more hampers for other people. I’d love to stay, but...” She paused. Chai. Pumpkin spice. 

“Did Grandpa ever come to you for his Christmas pumpkin pie?” 

Auntie adjusted her scarf, looking over her shoulder into the house. “Yes, bless him... he’d usually make a stop this morning on his bicycle, and borrow two sachets of chai mix. Always two. Then we’d get a slice the next day, too.” She looks back at Tiana, eyes soft with understanding. “You...?” 

Tiana nodded, shy. “Yeah, I want to, um, recreate it. It won’t be perfect, but I want to try. For Grandma, as a present. To remind her. The recipe isn’t written anywhere, so I thought I’d ask around to find it, because he’d always ask … but I don’t know...” 

“You’ll do amazing, habibi. Ask at the centre – they'll have the recipe, or most of it. Your grandpa touched many hearts, and his pumpkin pie was at the centre of that. He knew food was the way to everyone’s heart, not just men.” They shared a giggle.  

Then she looked over her shoulder again, and yelled into the house, “JORDAN!” along with a string of sharp Arabic. Tiana startled. “He’ll be down in a second, to give you the chai. Fi amanallah, amira.”  

Tiana smiled and stepped back from the door, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She was naturally anxious, and these anxieties began to bubble up now. Was this even a good idea? Their town wasn’t big, but how was she to ask practically everyone for separate parts of a recipe that no one had a full idea of? Would it even turn out good? Would granny even like it? 

“Hey, princess.”  

Tiana jumped again, looking up into the amiable, handsome face of her best friend, Jordan. She scowled under her mask and stepped back, feeling her face flush. “Don’t scare me like that. Chai?” She held out her hand. 

“Wow, rude. I haven’t seen you in two weeks and this is how I’m treated? I need better friends.” He was in his jacket, stepping past her to the car. “You don’t think you’ll need my help?” 

Tiana blinked, incredulous. Jordan was in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio buttons. She settled in the driver’s seat and turned to him, scowling. He was all smiles, curls innocently spilling over his face.  

“Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing? I have a lot to do and no time to waste. I need that chai. Not help.” She stretched her hand again, impatiently. 

“Alright, fine, fine.” He looked her in the eye. “I overheard what you said to Umma. I know how shy you can get, and how important this is to you and your grandma.” She looked down, embarrassed. His voice got softer. “He meant a lot to me, too, you know. He’s the reason we met.”  

Tiana cracked a smile. She knew he could see it, mask or not. Turning away from him, she put the key in drive, resigned. “Fine. You’ll do the asking with me, and we’ll bake together. There’s not a lot of time, and we’ve still got all these hampers to give out...” 

Jordan laughs. “Breathe, princess. We can do this.”  

She glared at him as she pulled away from the curb. “Only your sister and mom have the right to call me that.” 

“Sure, sure...” 

“Speaking of Laila...” she reached into her pocket and tossed a pack of candy canes, jellybeans and liquorice into his lap. “Leftovers from the café sweet section. I know she loves liquorice.” 

Jordan went quiet, looking over at Tia. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration as she navigated the slippery road, lashes casting shadows on coffee-coloured skin. He remembers the first time he saw her: her grandpa bringing them over to her stall at the fair, nervously adjusting her mini-pies. She had the same kindly eyes as her grandpa, anxious to make people happy, to spread love. Tiana was much shyer, but she did it her way: volunteering at the café, listening to his mom’s pedantic talk, being so sweet to Laila. Like now. And she had no clue he’d gone head over heels for her. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

* 

Although she’d never tell him, Tia was grateful Jordan was his overbearing, confident self and came along in her deliveries. They all went something like this – she'd knock, drop the basket, exchange greetings, accept the inevitable condolences for her grandparents. Where she would stutter, Jordan would smoothly pick up about the recipe, if they’d been one of the few Grandpa would borrow from. Out of thirteen deliveries around the neighbourhood, they picked up eight ingredients and proportions (he had been weirdly specific about amounts, which helped): three eggs, two cans of foreign branded condensed milk, sacks of demerara sugar the size of her fists, among other ingredients from people only related by their connection to this legendary pie.  

Wait, that wasn’t true. Every house they stopped at did have something in common – an anecdote about her grandpa. He'd had a bigger impact than Tiana realised: she’d known he was kind, active at the community centre, and if not at the centre, at the café, talking to little kids and baking his famous pies, with Tia observing over his shoulder. But he'd touched everyone. Like Jordan’s mom said, he spread love everywhere, especially through his food. She could only hope to live up to that. 

She stopped the car in the community centre’s carpark, taking a deep breath. It was six o’clock, pitch black outside, and they had maybe three hours to find ingredients for the crust, and bake it, and she wasn’t sure- 

“Breathe.” Jordan put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ve got this. The place is packed, I’m sure there’ll be someone who knows something. Maybe even a full recipe. You’ve got this.”  

She looked at him, in his steady olive eyes, and exhaled. “Okay. Thank you, for being here. I guess you are kind of useful.” He rolled his eyes, and then she surprised herself by placing a kiss on his cheek before grabbing the box of ingredients and jumping out of the car. 

* 

The centre was alive with movement, packing, cleaning, making spaces for people with nowhere to go, food being served, attempting to be as socially distanced as possible. Tiana couldn’t find Jordan in the crowd, nor was there a clear path to the kitchen. Panic slowly began to rise again. Oh, no...  

Then, a small, gloved hand on her arm guided her from the crowd, down a narrow hallway and into a tiny kitchen she’d never seen before. It was empty, save for a pre-heated oven and flour, butter, and pumpkins laid out on the table.  She turned to look at her saviour: a small, white haired older lady, with half-moon glasses and a blue catering mask and gloves.

“Who... I mean, thank you ... but how?” 

The tiny lady shook her head. Her expression wasn’t readable through the mask (story of her life), but her eyes were kind. “Your grandfather was a kind, loving soul. Bake with the love I know he’s put in you and we all have for him. I look forward to trying it.” She turned and left, door shutting softly behind her.

Tiana traced over the pumpkins, the butter, the smooth flour that had been waiting for her all this time. She thought back to a memory, the first time he helped her bake, her burgeoning anxiety and how he’d quelled it: take it gently! fold, don’t mix. Use your hands here. No, no, don’t take it out of the oven yet. Always bake with love. 

With love. For her best friend, her family, her grandpa, for everyone working in this centre, for everyone who’s lost someone this year. Her poor granny, tricked into believing love left this world four months ago. 

Tiana rolled up her sleeves, washed her hands and begun. There’s no need for a recipe. 

* 

“Tiana? What are you-” Her mom started.

“Wait.” She knocked gently at the door at the end of the hallway. “Grams? It’s me. I’m coming in.” 

The room is dark and shadowy, matching the weather outside. The light from the candle on the plate Tiana holds is a welcome pop of colour to the room. Surprising enough for the small woman with grey hair and guarded eyes to sit up, suspiciously eyeing the slice of pie. 

She sat on the edge of the bed. “Hi, Grandma. I know it’s been hard. For you, and me, dad, and mom, even if she never says. I decided to make his pumpkin pie to help you. But what I didn’t realise is that I needed this as much as you did, and so did our entire town. He never wrote the recipe down, so I had to ask everyone who he might’ve got ingredients from. And everyone had a story to tell. They all had love for him, and for us, even if it was just for his pie. You see? We’re still here. We love you, and we always will. Gramps will never fade, because every dish he made with love exists in pieces of everyone in this town, and people we don’t know. He exists in this room, in my mind, in your heart, and in this pie. It's not perfect, but this is the first slice. And there is love in it.” 

She stared at the slice. In the candlelight, her eyes seemed to flicker. Then quietly, she mumbled her first words in months: “With love.” 

Tiana blinked back her tears. “Love.” 

She touched her grandma’s hand and left the room, shutting the door softly and heading upstairs. She didn’t notice her mother wiping away tears at the kitchen table, as she looked over a faded piece of paper with looping script at the head. It read: Grandpa Alex’s Christmas Pumpkin Pie, made with love.