My abue taught me how to bake. Well, I’m not sure I actually learned the recipes when I was 7 years old, but I learned to share the joy of baking. I loved making pound cake with my abue, un panqué. We used our own substitute for butter, the scum that we collected after boiling the milk that the milkman delivered to us every other day (My husband thinks the cups of scum we had in the fridge when I was a child were gross. I actually feel sorry for him, I’m not sure what he believes about the industrial butter that he ate all his childhood). We baked vanilla, chocolate and marble panqués. In case you’re wondering, banana loaf is not popular in México, I’ve never heard of anyone baking them.
I would stiff the flour, and use my child’s strength to mix the wet ingredients. I always poured more vanilla than necessary. Before closing the oven’s door, we would always make the sign of the cross, entrusting our panqué to God. We always succeed. And I was constantly looking forward for our next baking day.