I Feel Closest to God When I Bake
by Miranda Hanzal
Miranda Hanzal is a San Antonio and UIW native, and graduated from UIW in December 2021, with a double major in English and Art. They have always loved reading and writing, but had never given it a second thought when it came to their career. They grew up discouraged from pursuing creative fields and had only reserved them for pleasure. It wasn't until they sat in Dr. LuElla D'Amico's World literature class, their sophomore year of college, hating their Business major, that they dreamed of a different future. The class had just received feedback on their first essay, and Dr. D'Amico pulled them aside to share her shock of finding out that they were not even an English minor. They remember that day vividly, and credit it as their tidal wave to the life they lead now. Instead of most likely feeling stuck and burnt out in the big business field, they spend their days teaching English and Creative Writing to high school seniors, with an overflowing cup. They hope to spend the rest of their life encouraging others in the same way they were encouraged on the third floor of the main academic building.
When I was little – and now still – I felt pulled between two worlds. At the center of each sat Catholic guilt. It reigned over me until I became wise enough to buy an umbrella. Protecting myself from both the dark, drenching clouds and brilliant light. Shielding me from faith entirely.
I was raised half on a cow farm in Kosciusko, Texas, and half running around the streets deep in the southeast side of San Antonio. Polish, and Mexican. I was never quite the right shade for either side of my family. Too Hispanic and liberal for my father’s side, and too freckled for my mother’s. Regardless of the side, church was waiting on Sunday.
Sitting idly in the pews, I remember getting in trouble for questioning why God tested the people he claimed to love. I never felt God or Jesus shining through the stained glass. The room always echoed what others were trying to hide. My grandmother’s faith lived somewhere else entirely. I watched her use it quietly, like a tool that filled the gaps of her life – more apron than altar. She never asked me what I believed, and the only thing we tested was new recipes in the kitchen.
When my father left my mom, I stopped liking the taste of the Eucharist. I blamed God for splitting my world in two, and I blamed him even more for making my mother suffer. Church became more than a chore, and I became as bitter as the wine that was supposed to cleanse our sins.
After the divorce, I stopped visiting the cow farm and my sweet saint of a grandmother. I stopped returning her calls because I felt guilt for hating her son and blaming her God. She never loved me any less and never tested my faith in her. And every year, she waited for me to show up to her annual cookie-baking day after Thanksgiving. On that day, nothing could go wrong. The air between us felt as sweet as the million pounds of sugar we used, and never suffocating like my thoughts. And every year, our batches doubled. As the years passed, I became less bitter, softening like the butter we left on the counter, still harboring the guilt for not being the granddaughter she deserved. And then, she got sick.
I started shrinking again, talking myself out of visiting her, promising to do more next week. I’m not sure if I believed she would get better, or if I was too scared to face the conversations we never had. I visited her once, wanting her to be the first person I told that I was getting married. I sat in the hospital chapel, bargaining with a God I hadn’t spoken to in years – one I wasn’t even sure I still believed in. Promising to grace the world with more good deeds if her surgery could just go smoothly. She died on December 29th, stuck in the hospital for her last cookie day earth-side, a day after FaceTiming her while finding my wedding dress, planning for her to get better enough to make my wedding cake. I didn’t think I would ever bake again. I feared that if I had leftover eggs, I’d throw them at God's house.
As my wedding day grew closer, and plans became suffocating, I kept putting off finding a baker. No one would get it right, and no one would do it with her love. I measured the months by letting that task sift to the bottom. With less than 40 days to go, I took off work on my birthday and mindlessly drove to Kosciusko, stopping for a chat with her in the church cemetery. The bells rang and whispered to visit her kitchen that had been haunting me. A year of avoiding my most sacred place, I found a miracle on her desk shelf and read scripture in recipes.
Two weeks before my wedding, I stood silently in my kitchen and started praying as I measured the ingredients. With each egg crack, each fold of egg whites, and each sliver of shaved coconut, I slowly found my faith again. Practicing, praying, and piling layers of cake. Sifting through my anger with God for ripping her from me, forgiving myself for not following faith’s recipe. Because after all, the best treat is only ever measured with love, and changes with the seasons.
On my wedding day, I sat in the dress my grandmother saw the day before she left me and carried her cake in my lap. I saved a seat for her in the church pew closest to me, and during our dinner prayer, I prayed to her. I didn’t bow my head, I held still and listened. When we cut the cake, I tasted sugar, coconut, and something that felt like permission.