Imagine yourself as a teenager, dilly-dallying after school. No hurry to get home. You hang out at the bus stop with friends until your stomach starts to growl and you start thinking about dinner. It’s a warm day, and as you’re walking home, you realize you smell like books and physical education class and beanie weenies you ate for lunch in the school cafeteria. 

You saunter through the front door, head in the clouds, daydreaming about your latest crush. The way he smiled and raised his eyebrows as he passed by your locker. Your heart sank to your stomach and it’s all you could think about through afternoon classes. 

But the minute you enter the living room, you forget about your crush, your classes, your friends, everything. A heavenly aroma wafts through the air from the kitchen, stopping you in your tracks. You close your eyes and breathe in the culinary seasonings unique to your grandmother’s dishes.

Now imagine your favorite dish is your Grannie’s vermicelli. Or, as she lovingly called it, “fideo” pronounced fi-they-O, a Spanish word for thin rice noodles. Grannie used vermicelli twisted into coils about the size of her delicate hand. She browned them in a skillet with the slightest bit of oil until golden. I can still see her gently lifting each round from the pan, placing them on dry paper towels, then breaking them apart.

The sauce simmered on low for 20 minutes or so, making my mouth water.  Standing over Grannie’s shoulder, I watched every step, counting down to the minute I could devour that first forkful of wonder. Without measuring, Grannie combined chicken broth with half the amount of tomato sauce, sprinkling in salt, a dash of pepper, Oregano, fresh diced garlic, chopped sautéed onions, and a whole lot of love. 

“Mijita, please transfer the vermicelli into the large pan there, and place it on the front burner on low,” Grannie would say.

Then, she slowly added the sauce to the pot of vermicelli, and using a large spoon, folded it tenderly to keep the fideo from burning. I could taste this magnificent creation even before it reached my mouth. 

Grannie provided fresh cooked pinto beans to accompany the fideo, and of course warm tortillas. But I preferred to savor this delight on its own, helping myself to three or four servings at one sitting. The nerve endings on my tongue and in my mouth created a euphoria that swept over me with every bite until I couldn’t manage any more. 

This was comfort food of the highest degree. It cheered me up when I was sad. Helped me feel better when I was sick. Gave me solace when I was nervous or uneasy about any situation in life—a mid-term exam, a first date with my crush, or the mere thought of ever losing my Grannie. 

She passed away the summer before my senior year. Forty-plus years later, she lives in my heart, and her fideo warms my soul.

(Today–September 10 is Grannie’s Birthday. Happy Heavenly Birthday, Grannie!)