Mayra Cuevas - Salty, Bitter, Sweet

Praise for Salty, Bitter, Sweet

A story that will fill your heart and warm your belly.

Ismee Williams, critically acclaimed author of Water in May and This Train Is Being Held

Poignant and heartfelt, Salty, Bitter, Sweet has it all. Full of culture, love, and loss, every page is a feast for the senses in a story that never shies away from exploring complicated family dynamics. Cuevass writing is pure magic.

Nina Moreno, author of Dont Date Rosa Santos

Salty, Bitter, Sweet sparkles with wit, humor, and heart. Cuevass debut is as delectable a morsel as the gourmet creations aspiring chef Isa creates along her journey to find her place in her family, the culinary world, and her first romantic relationship. I devoured this charming novel in one sitting and cant wait for more from this talented author.

Gilly Segal, author of Im Not Dying with You Tonight

Sweet, delicious, and beautifully layerednot unlike the perfect mille crpe cake. Youll want to devour this book immediately.

Rachael Allen, author of A Taxonomy of Love and The Summer of Impossibilities

Both deeply poignant and laugh-out-loud funny, Mayra Cuevass Salty, Bitter, Sweet expertly blends heartbreak, romance, and the joy that comes from letting go of expectations and learning to love yourselfthe perfect ingredients for this deliciously satisfying debut!

Marie Marquardt, author of Dream Things True, The Radius of Us, and Flight Season

In addition to being an incredible YA romance that will absolutely sweep you off your feet, Salty, Bitter, Sweet is also an honest meditation on slowing down and appreciating the simpler things in life. Isas tunnel-vision on winning the kitchen apprenticeship is relatable for so many teens who feel pressure to achieve at a certain level, all the time, and her journey illustrates that taking care of yourself is more important than any award or grade or job. I loved this book!

Norah, Little Shop of Stories

What a magnificent treat. This novel is delicious and nutritious, with a captivating romance garnished in family drama. Cuevas has crafted a page-turning tale that explores our most private motivations.

Kimberly L. Jones, writer/director and coauthor of Im Not Dying with You Tonight

BLINK

Salty, Bitter, Sweet

Copyright 2020 by Mayra Cuevas

Requests for information should be addressed to:

Blink, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-310-76977-4

Audio ISBN: 978-0-310-76980-4

Ebook ISBN: 978-0-310-76983-5

Epub Edition January 2020 9780310769835

All internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or to imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any otherexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Cover design: Brand Navigation

Interior design: Denise Froehlich

Printed in the United States of America

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For my abuelas Cuqui and Josefa,
who taught me that love arrives through the kitchen

Para mis abuelas Cuqui y Josefa,
quienes me ensearon que el amor entra por la cocina

Contents

H appiness, like love, arrives through the kitchen. At least thats what my abuela Lala used to say.

I ponder her words, feeling every bit happy in the kitchen as I wipe a cheesy smudge off my recipe book then lick my thumb.

I sigh in pleasure.

I may not know much about love, but judging by the perfect balance of Gruyre and parmesan, I definitely got the kitchen part down.

Though I cant take the credit for this French marvel. My copy of Larousse Gastronomique is so worn I could probably taste each dish simply by licking the border of the page.

Laroussealso known as the French culinary biblesays an ideal souffl should have a melting texture, a creamy center, and stand for two to three minutes without deflating. Currently, my deflation time is one and a half minutesat least thirty seconds short of passable and a full minute and a half away from perfection.

Morning, kiddo. Papi saunters in and heads straight for the coffee maker. Did you sleep in the kitchen? He fills his favorite mug, one that reads Im as corny as Kansas in AugustGod, he really is.

How a Cuban American born and raised in the Midwest ended up living on a cherry farm in France is beyond my comprehension. Life is so weird sometimes.

Ah, the nectar of the gods, he sings. The cup of black coffee he pours looks and smells like jet fuel.

I made caf con lecheits in that thermos if you want some. I nod toward the tartan-print thermos, a staple in Lalas kitchen.

Oddly enough, Lalas thermos was part of my inheritance. My name, Isabella Fields, is written in Lalas old-fashioned cursive on the cardboard box it came in. Under it she wrote, For my morenitathe sweet term of endearment she often used to celebrate my darker skin tone. Yet its not the color of my skin that makes me almost the mirror image of both Papi and Lala; its the wild, curly mane of cocoa-brown hair, my full lips and high cheekbones. This is my Latina side, the morenita me. The only feature I inherited from my fair-skinned French mother is my nose. A small, straight-edged thing that, to me, looks out of place in the mishmash that is my facenot because I prefer one nose over another, but because its a constant reminder I come from divergent worlds while not wholly belonging to any of them. Never Cuban enough, or French enough, or American enoughthats me, a dissonant three-course meal.

Along with the thermos, Lala left me her cookware, baking pans, and her handwritten cookbook, which Ive yet to unpack. Just thinking about itwith its red, tattered binding and yellowed pages full of her notesmakes my heart tighten in a way I cant focus on now. Too many memories to untangle at once.

Ill have some of your cafecito later, Papi says. Today, I need my first cup black and straight. He takes a long sip, idling by the kitchen counter like a puppy waiting for a treat. Papi loves to eat my food. And I love that he loves it.

He watches me as I slip my hands into heat-resistant gloves and open the oven door. The heavenly smell of melted cheese and butter envelops the kitchen. Inside, delicate clouds of pure, cheesy bliss burst from the ramekins. I instantly smile.

Still on the souffls, huh? he asks, peering over my shoulder.

They have to be perfect, I say, removing the baking tray from the oven. Nothing else will do. The scalding water filling the bottom of the tray sloshes precariously as I ease it onto the kitchen counter.

This time, I tried a new method recommended in Larousseplacing the ramekins in a bain-marie before sliding them in the oven. Its a way to steadily bring them up to temperature and keep the heat consistent. I pray it worked.