The Panna Cotta Promise

By Devananda Edamadathil

A freak accident had confined me to bed for two weeks, leaving physical scars that would heal but emotional wounds that would linger. At just five years old, the trauma proved overwhelming, triggering debilitating anxiety that made solitude unbearable. My mother, pregnant with my sister and juggling work responsibilities, struggled to balance caregiving.

To put up with my frequent wailing, Dad brought home Nino. A family friend had introduced Nino, a Georgian immigrant in her late fifties, who worked shifts in hotels and babysat children after work. Despite limited English, her kindness eased my distress. Language barriers vanished amidst her warmth and care, forging an unspoken bond between us.

We shared a few cherished rituals unique to us. Achievement of a new milestone during my recovery journey, like walking around for more than a few minutes and doing a little dance routine without feeling dizzy, meant that Nino would make me her masterpiece, caramel panna cotta. The deep, buttery notes of toasted sugar filled the air. The warm, subtly sweet nuances of vanilla, tingling my senses, meant that resilience was appreciated and that new territories were won.

Nino cut out little birds from carrots, which were used as garnishes to coax some veggies down my throat. On days that I spend most of my time playing video games, the birds were missing.

Her only surviving family was her daughter, with whom she had an estranged relationship. On days they spoke, Nino secluded herself in the kitchen, frying corn. Nino was my only companion until my parents were home. Pangs of pain felt in my wounds were fought with a caramelized perfection of a dessert and a warm, cozy hug.

Three weeks later, I was well enough to start school again. Nino was happy to see me back in form and made the caramel panna cotta again, although it meant that she would have to bid adieu. It was a tearful goodbye.

One year later, our school's annual sports meet commenced, featuring my eagerly anticipated chess tournament. The morning I sat at the chessboard, my senses were on high alert. With each calculated move, my confidence blossomed. Checks and counterchecks mesmerized the onlookers. The checkmate, a coup de grâce, sealed the victory at around 12 noon.

Cheerleaders swooped over and burst out into applause. However, in the bustle of the commotion, I felt something inexplicable, yet irrefutable. The sweet, creamy aroma of vanilla and caramel wafted through the air, transporting me to a realm of warmth and comfort of the cherished panna cotta. I was baffled how musty air, heavy with anticipation, thickened by the scent of aged wooden bleachers and the screams of enthusiastic sportsmen, surrendered to the serene, caramel scents with creamy vanilla, teasing my senses. Nino. I wished to have her presence.

I jostled home with the enchanting thoughts, not of my triumph, but of the strange sensation I experienced. I couldn’t wait to share it with my mother. However, home was filled with a macabre silence. My mother’s eyes were somber. “Dad is on his way home. Get ready; we have to see her one last time”.

“What?” I responded.

“Nino left us today. At noon.”

At noon. The words sunk in.

It all made sense.

The caramel and vanilla. It was her, Nino. She had been there, with her comforting embrace, and at peace with herself.

By Devananda Edamadathil