We would knead the dough together, I would add vanilla, and Mom would add love. Then we would pour everything into molds. They would rise in the oven, and the kitchen would be filled with a magical aroma.
Mom would always take them out earlier than they should have—because she couldn't wait. We would sit on the floor with her, eat straight from the mold, and laugh. It was our little happiness.
I still bake those muffins when the day is gloomy. Their taste takes me back to my childhood. And makes me closer to my mom, even when she's far away.