Abuelita's Chocolate

Karina Salgado Cruz 

When making Abuelita’s hot chocolate, you must decide between two foundations: milk or water? The base you choose for the chocolate is essential to the flavor. Water is the traditional route while milk is the more extravagant. You decide on milk; your family already decided on the path less traveled by, so why not splurge when the occasion arrives? Milk and chocolate, a mix between the colonizer and the colonized: you pour the white liquid into the pan and set it ablaze, let the milk come to a boiling point, and add two spoonfuls of condensed milk. You stir the thick substance until it melts off the spoon and fuses with the milk. A snowy land, school days off, and a frozen orchard: rare mornings spent together. You sneak a small taste of the sweetened milk before dropping the spoon into the sink to wash later. It tastes of hard labor, the sweat of the brow. You wash your hands.

When making Abuelita’s chocolate, you need to be prepared. Reach into the cabinet and take out two cinnamon sticks, let them simmer in the milk to create a subtle yet heavy flavor. As it all melds together, you must begin to crush the peppers. Allow enough space between you and the counter to sneeze without having to remake everything. You know you will sneeze, you always have. As the peppers become powder, set it aside and break a bar of chocolate into eight small pieces. The bar is extremely thick, you know because you lost a baby tooth once trying to sneak a bite, so you have to break it off with the use of a knife. You add the chocolate into the pan and stir it all together with a wooden whisk, one that looks like those honey dippers you’d see on TV when you were younger. This whisk is the only material thing allowed to touch the chocolate from here on out. Es tradición, your grandmother said so.

When making Abuelita’s hot chocolate, you must pray. Pray to a loved one lost (abuelo, tío, tía, papá), to a God you don't know if you believe in, to whatever brings you comfort, and

thank them for the luxury you will enjoy and the memories you will receive from every sip. You will hear the whispered words of fondness: Ay, mi niña. You will watch the chocolate dissolve into the liquid and proceed to add the spice. You will remember your grandmother scolding you for eating sweets at night, for crying from the blood falling from your mouth, and for not coming to her first about your cravings for her hot chocolate. As you stir, it will synthesize and unite and it will be done. Today is a special day, so you take out the clay mugs your family has on display on the top cabinet. You pour three servings. You will remember her hushing you so you wouldn’t wake up her tired daughter, ya ya ya.

When making Abuelita’s chocolate, you must not cry. You will give the first serving to your mother, your grandmother’s youngest daughter, and ask her ¿Te gusta? She will give you a small smile, a twitch of the lips, a blink-and-you-miss-it type of smile and take another sip. You will reach for your own serving and inhale the fumes before drinking. The spice will prickle your tongue and the chocolate and cinnamon will dance to soothe it. You will feel the heavy swallow of liquid down your throat. You will hear your grandmother’s laughter as she complains about your spice tolerance. You will tell yourself that the difficulty in swallowing is from the peppers and not from feeling. You will face your grandmother and hand her the last serving. Later, your mother will give her bread and your brother will serve her food. But right now, it's November 2nd, and you hope she enjoys your hot chocolate enough for a final visit. You hope she’ll visit, and teach you how to make it all over again.