#ingest

Crystelle loved baking ever since she was a child. The memories of her Abuelita singing, dancing, and making fresh bread, pastries, pies, cookies, biscuits, tortillas, cakes, croissants, breadsticks, and dozens of equally amazing baked goods filled her mind. Early in the morning, before anyone else was awake, Crystelle would get up and join her Abuelita in the kitchen. Abuelita passed down generations of recipes, stories, legends, anecdotes, and pure love to Crystelle, and Crystelle absorbed every moment of it.

As she grew up, Crystelle became determined to open her own bakery and naming it after her Abuelita, but her parents wished she focused on something more practical.

“Hija, you are one of the best bakers I know,” her mother said. “It’s just that I’d hate for it not to work out. I see how much joy it brings out of you, and you honor Abuelita each time you bake. I’d just hate that you would come to resent it.”

Tears formed in Crystelle’s eyes as she sat across from her parents, focusing on her still hands in her lap. When she raised her face, she was smiling. “I completely understand, Mami. I want to honor Abuelita in public, to the world, to show our culture and heritage, and how beautiful, inventive, and delicious our baking holds. Her murder was committed in the name of racism, bigotry, and hatred.” Crystelle took a moment to let a single teardrop fall. “I believe in bringing pride to my ancestors, my family, Abuelita, and to me, and believe I can do that with baking.”

In her mid-twenties, Crystelle stood in the kitchen of her first of many, planned bakeries in the tri-county area. She dusted the counter as she worked a dough for a customer’s order. A smile formed on her lips as she thought about her family.

While in high school, Crystelle’s mother died of a stroke from being overworked. She worked double-shifts, six days a week, for years to save up for Crystelle to go to culinary school, but her heart gave out from exhaustion. The tuition money Mami saved had to be used for bills once it became a one-parent household.

Papito fell into the bottle, having lost the love of his life, as well as being unable to afford the basic necessities for him and his daughter, as well as threatening her future to go to school. He internalized the pain until his depression took hold, and he ingested a bottle of sleeping pills.

Crystelle moved in with her Tía and two primas. Her cousins were twins, still in high school. All three of them had to share a room in the 2-bedroom apartment that Tía could afford on her salary. Papito couldn’t afford life insurance, and Crystelle had just graduated when he passed, so it was up to Tía to provide for another child.

To help, Crystelle got a job at a local bakery, while also attending culinary school. The death of her parents opened up a variety of scholarships and access to funds that wouldn’t have been capable before. It was the silver lining to the tragedy of losing both parents at such a young age.

After five years of working in professional bakeries and graduating from school, Crystelle opened a bakery, naming it Abuelita’s Panadería as promised. It was located in the same neighborhood she grew up in, a mixture of white, chicano, latin, hispanic, and black cultures and families.

Making incredible, delicious and affordable baked goods, business boomed for the tiny business. People came from all across the city to try out all of Abuelita’s recipes, and the panadería was mentioned in the city newspaper. A news van showed up one day to do a brief interview for the 9 o’clock news.

One year later, Crystelle had plans to open another two panaderías in a few months, bought a house for her and a house for her Tía and two primas, while also providing financial assistance for her primas’ college tuition, and a brand new, off-the-lot convertible car. She didn’t let it get to her head though, as she continued working in the kitchen making customer’s orders.

Bringing out the finished brioche loaf, Crystelle handed it to her customer, a man almost a decade older than her, wearing a suit and nice shiny shoes, and driving a fancy, sparkling sports car. He cleaned up nicely compared to when Crystelle saw him last: the night he and his friends killed Abuelita.

Crystelle remembered watching him scream in her face, calling her racial slurs, while he and his friends terrorized her, surrounded her, forced her to the ground, and beat her. She hid in nearby bushes watching the man and his friends take turns bashing in her head.

“Have a great day, Rick,” she said to the man as he took the bread.

He quirked his eyebrow at the mention of his name, unsure how she knew it, but he let it go and left with his order.

Crystelle stood at the counter, watching Rick leave in his car. She glanced at the clock, noting the time. She expected to read about a white man in his early thirties, coming from good stock, dying after becoming ill from mysterious circumstances.

With two murderers to go, Crystelle found their addresses and planned to open the next panaderías in their neighborhoods. Nobody could resist her baking.

Abuelita gave Crystelle all the recipes from generations past for all types of events, explaining when to use them, and Crystelle absorbed every moment of it.

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