The Magical Land of Birthdays

grabbed her backpack and her pink sweater and hurried down the path to the sidewalk. Her neighbor Mrs. Maria lived just two doors down. Mrs. Maria’s grandkids all lived in the United States, so she treated Amirah like an unofficial granddaughter. Amirah didn’t mind one bit. She loved to visit her for an afternoon of stories and conchas. The sweet, seashell-shaped treats were more of a breakfast food, but Amirah loved that Mrs. Maria liked to serve them in the afternoon too!
As she stood on the doorstep, Amirah knocked on the door—rap-rap-thud-thud-tap-tap-tap! The special knock was a code to tell Mrs. Maria that she’d come to visit. And sure enough, Mrs. Maria swung open the door just moments later. Her bright smile smoothed out all the lines in her face.
“Happy New Year, Amirah!” Mrs. Maria exclaimed, holding open the door for her.
“Happy New Year!” Amirah replied. “I have something for you!”
Mrs. Maria’s eyes sparkled. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked as Amirah handed her the envelope. “Oh good, I was hoping to get one this year!”
“You’ll get one every year!” Amirah said with a laugh. Then her eyes widened as she realized that Mrs. Maria’s gray hair had a little something extra in it—a lacy cobweb! Luckily, there were no spiders to be seen, and Mrs. Maria laughed as Amirah brushed the cobweb away.
“I’ve been tidying my attic,” she explained. “I always like to begin the New Year with a fresh start. And that includes the house too.”
Amirah thought about the clutter under her bed and knew she should follow Mrs. Maria’s example.
“Come, sit,” Mrs. Maria said. “I want to open this invitation properly, with a nice cup of horchata. And I don’t suppose I could interest you in some?”
“Always!” Amirah replied.
Mrs. Maria bustled off to the kitchen and soon returned with a pitcher of cold, creamy horchata and—Amirah grinned—a plate of conchas. As she poured the horchata, a frown flickered across Mrs. Maria’s face. She shook her head.
“Ay, me. Something is missing.” She sighed. “What would make this food even more festive?”
Amirah raised an eyebrow. “Are you thinking of something . . . colorful? And sweet?”
“Sí, sí, that’s exactly it!” Mrs. Maria replied.
“I have just the thing,” Amirah said as she pulled the sprinkles out of her pocket. Ever since Mrs. Maria had discovered that Amirah always carried sprinkles with her, she found a way to ask for them whenever they shared a snack or a meal.
“Wonderful! You are ready for anything!” Mrs. Maria said.
Once their cups of horchata were topped with a rainbow of sprinkles, Mrs. Maria opened the envelope and carefully pulled out the invitation that Amirah had made. As soon as she opened it, shiny bits of confetti fluttered through the air.
“Oh!” Mrs. Maria exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “Even the invitation feels like a party!”
“Well,” Amirah said, “you know how I feel about birthdays.”
Mrs. Maria laughed. “The whole town knows how you feel about birthdays,” she replied. “It’s a gift, you know. To remember the joy of your special day and carry it in your heart all year long.”
“Doesn’t everybody feel that way about birthdays, though?” Amirah asked.
“I’m not sure that everyone does,” Mrs. Maria replied. Her face broke into a smile as she reached across the table to give Amirah’s hand a gentle squeeze. “But lucky for everyone who has ever met you, you are a wonderful reminder of just how special birthdays are!”
Amirah grinned back at Mrs. Maria.
“Now, this cake you painted,” Mrs. Maria continued. “Is this a hint about your birthday cake, eh?”
“You know I can’t tell you!” Amirah replied. “It’s a secret until the party!” And so far, it’s a secret even from me, she thought—but didn’t say.
Then Amirah noticed a stack of books on the table. “What are all these?” she asked.
“My old cookbooks,” Mrs. Maria said. “I’m getting rid of them, once and for all.”
Amirah looked up in surprise. “You are? Why?” she said.
“Because I have been cooking for so long, I keep all my favorite recipes up here,” Mrs. Maria said, tapping her temple. “I haven’t even opened those cookbooks in ages! Some I never even touched, they were just things I picked up through the years.”
“You just ‘picked them up through the years’?” Amirah repeated, confused.
“Yes, exactly,” Mrs. Maria laughed. “I would buy secondhand cookbooks at yard sales or flea markets, or friends would give them to me as gifts. When you like to cook as much as I do, for as long as I have, you just accumulate a collection of cookbooks and you don’t even know how!” Mrs. Maria took a final sip of her horchata. “You can help yourself if you want any of them.”
“Wow, really?” Amirah asked.
“Sí! Take as many as you want,” Mrs. Maria said. “They served me well when I was young like you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to start making some pozole for my supper. And you know what? I think I’ll make a little extra. Then you can take some home and surprise your sweet mother. Tada! Dinner is ready!”
“She’ll love it,” Amirah replied. “And so will I!”
Mrs. Maria’s cooking was legendary in their neighborhood. Like Mrs. Maria, Amirah’s mother was also an outstanding cook and baker, and she never seemed to need a recipe either. Somehow, Mama just knew what a particular dish needed . . . a pinch of this, a spoonful of that. Amirah longed to be so skilled in the kitchen, but she’d never been bold enough to cook without a recipe before.
Maybe if I use Mrs. Maria’s cookbooks, I’ll learn all her recipes, Amirah thought to herself. She carefully sorted through the stack of cookbooks. There were cookbooks for dinner parties and cookbooks for holidays; cookbooks for everyday meals and cookbooks for special occasions. Amirah’s mouth started to water as she flipped through the books. From the kitchen, the delicious smells of sizzling onions and chilies wafted through the dining room as Mrs. Maria prepared a big pot of pozole.
Amirah’s fingers