It is a Sunday sunny morning, the last Sunday before I leave to study abroad in America. Mom, Dad and I are at the front door and my brothers ring the bell as many times as they can. Finally, the door opens and we smell Grandma’s food.

“Entrad [Come in],” she says. We give her two kisses.

I’m carrying books because I have a test next week. But I leave my things in a corner and walk to the terrace. My eyes shrink because of the sun. I hear the birds chirp.

Que día más bonito [What a beautiful day], I think.

“¡Ven a ayudar [Come and help], Celia!”

I roll my eyes and walk back to the kitchen. My dad sits in the couch reading his favourite newspaper (which he buys every single Sunday). He licks his thumb to turn to a new page.

“¿Qué vamos a comer [What are we going to eat]?” I ask.

“Sopa de ajo [Garlic Soup],” my grandma says.

I jump and dance, happy to hear my favourite dish. I set the table and smell the delicious liquid in the bowls. I hear my mom and grandma talking about Nieves whose daughter has been out of the country for a year. I shake my head. “Vaya dos [Oh these two].”

And then the time arrives. I have the spoon in my left hand and I look eagerly as steam comes out of the bowl.

“Que aproveche [Enjoy].” My spoon drowns into this brew. My tongue burns—but I don’t care.

“¿Cuál es tu secreto para hacer que esté tan rico [What is your secret in making this so delicious]?”

“La comida que se hace con amor siempre está rica [Food made with love is always good],” my grandmother says as she touches my cheek.