Abuela’s Recipe
When I first moved out on my own, my mom handed me a small, weathered recipe book. Its cover was cracked and faded, the pages yellowed with age. She held it out to me with both hands, her expression soft and serious. “Take care of this,” she said, her voice trembling just a little. “It belonged to your Abuela.” I paused, my fingers brushing over the delicate book. “Wait,” I said, looking up. “You mean Abuela, as in Granny’s mom? The one from Bolivia?” She nodded, her eyes glistening. “Yes, my grandmother. She brought this with her when she came to America. It’s been in our family for generations.” Hearing that made the book feel heavier in my hands, like it was full of something more than paper and ink. It was part of our family’s story. Abuela was almost like a myth in our family. Though I’d never met her, Granny loved to tell me stories about her. She was born in Bolivia in 1852 and made the long, dangerous journey to America when she was just 29 years old. “She was fearless,” Granny would always say, her eyes shining with pride. “She traveled all alone, carrying only a suitcase and her recipes. She didn’t have much, but she had her dreams and her determination.” Abuela eventually settled in Present, where she met my great-grandfather. That’s where our family began to grow roots. When I was a kid, Granny’s kitchen was my favorite place in the whole world. The air was always warm and smelled like spices and sugar, a mix of scents that felt like love. The recipe book sat open on the counter most days, its pages smudged with flour and oil stains from years of use. “Alright, little helper,” Granny would say with a wink, tying an apron around my waist that always seemed too big. “Let’s make Botines de Guerra today. That was your Abuela’s favorite recipe.” “What does that mean again?” I asked once, scrunching up my nose. “Little boots of war,” Granny said with a laugh, her hands already reaching for ingredients. “It’s a sweet pastry, not actual boots. Don’t worry!” I giggled, bouncing on my toes with excitement. “What do I do first, Granny?” Granny would smile and open the recipe book, her finger tracing the delicate handwriting. The words were written in Spanish, looping and beautiful. “Let’s see,” she said. “We need flour, baking powder, honey… You measure these out, and I’ll get the stove ready.” Measuring cups and spoons became my tools of choice, and cracking eggs was my specialty. Granny always said I had the perfect touch for it—well, almost perfect. “Oops!” I giggled once, staring at the batter where a small shard of eggshell floated. Granny peered over and laughed. “It’s okay, mi corazón,” she said, fishing it out with her fingers. “A little crunch never hurt anyone.” I loved those afternoons. Flour dusted my hands, my cheeks, even my nose, and Granny didn’t seem to mind one bit. She’d hum while she worked, her movements smooth and practiced, like she’d done it a thousand times before. When the pastries were finally done, golden and sticky with honey, Granny would place them on a plate and sit me at the table. “Here,” she said, setting one in front of me. “Taste it and tell me if we did Abuela proud.” I took a bite, the sweetness melting on my tongue, and nodded furiously. “We did it, Granny!” She laughed, her face lighting up with joy. “Of course we did. It’s in our blood.” Now, holding that same recipe book in my hands as an adult, I felt a pang of longing. Granny was gone now, and so was her warm kitchen. But the recipes were still here, waiting for me to bring them to life again. I felt both nostalgia and hesitation. The book was over a century old, its pages worn and fragile. I didn’t want to risk damaging it. I flipped through the pages, the handwriting familiar and comforting. It was like Abuela and Granny were both with me, guiding me, reminding me that some things—like love and family—never truly fade. “Alright, little helper,” I murmured to myself, smiling as I tied my own apron. “Let’s make Botines de Guerra today.” For the first time in years, the kitchen smelled will like home. There was one problem: I didn’t understand Spanish. At all. “Good thing I have a translator,” I muttered, opening my laptop. The first recipe I tackled was, of course, Botines de Guerra. Granny always said it was Abuela’s own creation. Just reading the ingredients brought back the memory of their heavenly smell wafting through the house. I began typing. The ingredients were straightforward: 9 cups of flour3 tablespoons baking powder2 tablespoons baking soda½ cup cane sugar½ cup honey1 tablespoon salt2 cups butter1 cup hot water “Seems easy enough,” I said to myself, smiling. But then, I noticed a line beneath the ingredients, one Granny had never read aloud. “Huh,” I murmured, squinting at the page. The handwriting was different, bolder. Granny always said this ingredient was optional, something Abuela used, but she didn’t. Curious, I typed the words into the translator: Mezcle lentamente 1 taza de sangre humana hasta quede suave. The translation appeared on the screen: Slowly mix 1 cup of human blood until smooth. Credit: Rodney Hatfield Jr. Facebook Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.