I couldn’t explain it. Normally, I brimmed with baking ideas and my aunt couldn’t keep our kitchen stocked with enough eggs, butter, flour, and sugar since I ran through them so quickly. But for the last few months, I’d felt blocked while the ingredients piled up in the fridge.
I flipped through the beautiful leather-bound bullet journal I used to jot down my recipes, hoping something would catch my eye. I needed something spectacular for my part of the menu, something that would bring people to the cafe in droves. Something that would put us on the map. This was my dream and it needed to be perfect. But as I scoured the book, trying to find something worthy of the Brew-ha Cafe, I grew more and more dissatisfied with the simple recipes I’d compiled. But Adeena and Elena were counting on me. I had to figure this out.
I slammed the book shut and racked my brain to remember the last time I was wowed by a pastry. Images of a gorgeous croquembouche, a cake composed of filled cream puffs stacked with caramel and spun sugar, filled my head. If I filled them with ube, coconut, and pandan pastry creams, it’d be a wonderful Filipino-French fusion dessert that was sure to stop people in their tracks. Picturing it as the centerpiece of our stall for Founder’s Day, I hurried off to research the various components and create my own award-winning recipe.
Five hours, an ungodly amount of eggs and sugar, plus several caramel burns later, I had a hideous stack of soggy pastry balls in front of me. It was not elegant. It was not beautiful. It wasn’t even tasty. What it was, as I stared in anger at the mess I’d made, was a colossal waste of time and good ingredients. The counter, stove, table, and I were covered in flour and caramel drips. The sink was piled with dirty dishes. And as I stood there, trembling with the urge to smash some plates, who should walk in but Tita Rosie and Lola Flor.
“Ay nako! Anak, what happened? Are you OK? Did you burn yourself?” Tita Rosie rushed over and examined me for injuries. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at my face, which was when I realized I was crying.
I sniffed and wiped at my face, smearing even more mess across it. “I’m OK, Tita. Just frustrated is all. I was trying to figure out a new recipe for the cafe and ended up with a big failure. I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up soon.”
“Don’t worry about that right now.” My aunt hesitated. “We missed you at church. Father Santiago was asking about you. He said that—”
My ringing phone cut her off. I glanced down and was surprised to see Sana’s name flashing across the screen. Normally I would’ve ignored it since Tita Rosie was still talking, but I didn’t want to hear about how I was disappointing Father Santiago, our priest and my former running buddy. “Oh sorry, Tita! This might be pageant business; can you give me a minute?”
She nodded and moved to clean up my mess, my grumbling grandmother joining her while I stepped into the living room to answer the phone. “Hey Sana, what’s up?”
“I’m about to go for a run down the Riverwalk. I remember you mentioning it was your favorite spot. Would you like to join me? I’m in the mood for some company.”
I wasn’t the most athletic person around, but I enjoyed a good run. Something about the simple, rhythmic motion helped clear my mind—I hadn’t gone on a run since the summer heat started, but maybe this was what I needed to get over my baking funk. Nisa and I could use the exercise, too. People said that dogs tended to resemble their owners, and considering that my little wiener dog was a super cute brown girl with stubby legs, great fashion sense, and a tendency toward plumpness, I had to agree.
“Sure! Give me a few minutes to change and get my dog ready and we’ll meet you at the entrance to the Riverwalk.” She agreed and we both hung up.
I went upstairs to clean myself up and change into workout clothes, then got Nisa into her matching gear. I was at the front door putting on my shoes when Tita Rosie came out of the kitchen.
“Oh hey, Tita. I’m going to meet Sana for a run. Is it OK if I clean up the kitchen after?”
“Don’t worry, anak. Just go have fun with your friend. I think it’d be good for you. Invite her back for dinner, too. I’d like to get to know her.”
I told her I’d ask, and Tita Rosie waved me and Nisa off as we jogged over to the Riverwalk. Sana was standing at the entrance in a yoga tree pose, smiling brightly as Nisa and I hurried over to her.
Wow, I was out of shape. I bent over, hands on my knees as I took in deep breaths and tried to greet her. “Sorry, just let me catch my breath. Maybe I really should check out your classes if that short sprint has me this winded.”
She smiled and bent over to pet Nisa. “Well, hello there, cutie. What’s your name?” She glanced at Nisa’s nametag. “Longganisa? Nice to meet you, Longganisa.”
Nisa flopped on her back and enjoyed belly rubs from Sana while I worked to regulate my breathing.
“You should put your hands on your head and stretch a little. It’ll improve your breathing,” Sana advised.
Once I was a little more comfortable, I gestured for Nisa to get up and follow me along the Riverwalk. Sana and I sauntered along the path, dodging the occasional cyclist, jogger, and stroller-power-walking mom. After a few minutes of walking in a comfortable silence, Sana subtly picked up the pace until we were both jogging along the path, Nisa keeping up at a light trot alongside us.
“How’ve you been? Adeena said your cafe is open now, so you must be really busy these days.”
I faltered at the question, stumbling over a nonexistent crack in the sidewalk. “Oh, um, it’s just the soft opening. I mean, we’re not officially open yet, so not all that busy.”
“I’ll stop in sometime this week. Adeena and Elena have been talking about it so much lately, and I can’t wait to check out the space. What’s it called again?”
“The Brew-ha Cafe.” I spelled it out for her. “It’s a play on words. In Tagalog and Spanish, ‘bruha/bruja’ means ‘witch.’”
She laughed. “So that’s why Adeena insisted that you all made magic in that shop.”
Except the magic was gone now. At least mine was.
Picking up on my mood change, she asked, “Something wrong?”
Should I tell her? Just spill my guts to this woman who was still kind of a stranger about how I was failing my friends and my family and my dreams all because I sucked at baking now?
Her voice casual and friendly, Sana said, “If it’s about the cafe, you can talk to me without worrying about me saying anything to your partners. I’m a life coach for female entrepreneurs, so I’d like to help if I could.”
With the caramel burns still fresh on my hands and my earlier failure still fresh on my mind, I figured I had nothing to lose. “I need to come up with my side of the menu for the cafe and I want it to be spectacular. Something that’ll bring people in from all over, not just Shady Palms. But everything I’ve made lately has been terrible.”
“Are you sure you’re not being too hard on yourself?”