Growing up in Southern California rain was rare enough that it felt like a special event. The sky would turn gray, the sidewalks would darken, that now familiar smell of rain filling the air and almost immediately I knew what that meant, sopapillas at my grandma’s house.

Sopapillas are a Chilean pastry that my nana and I made together every time it rained. By the time I got to her house she would already have the dough prepared and waiting on the counter. We would stand on opposite sides of her kitchen, rolling out the dough and cutting it into pieces while oil crackled on the stove beside us. Sometimes my tias would join in, but it always felt like something that belonged mostly to the two of us.

We talked the entire time. We made jokes, laughed at things that probably were not even funny, and worked around each other with the kind of rhythm that only comes from doing something over and over with someone you love. The kitchen would get warm from the stove while rain tapped against the windows outside.

One night in October, my dad bought pumpkins for us to carve together. It was raining that night too, which meant my grandma was making sopapillas. My mom told me I could either stay home and carve pumpkins with my dad or go to my nana’s house and help her cook.

I remember feeling strangely torn over such a small decision. Pumpkin carving sounded fun, but something in me kept pulling me toward my grandma’s kitchen. I didn’t give it much thought then but I think part of me knew those rainy nights with her would not last forever. Pumpkins could wait another year. Time with her could not.

So I went to my nana’s house.

We rolled the dough out together like always. We stood on opposite sides of the counter talking while she fried the sopapillas, and for a few hours everything felt normal and permanent, like it would happen every single time it rained for the rest of my life.

But it didn’t.

Not long after that my family moved to Washington. That night became one of the last times we ever made sopapillas together.

For a long time, I thought important memories had to look dramatic or extraordinary while they were happening. But now I think the most meaningful moments are usually quiet ones. They happen in kitchens during conversations you barely remember word for word, with people you assume will always be there.

I still think about rainy days differently because of her. Even now whenever it rains,

 I remember standing across the counter from my nana in her warm kitchen, covered in flour while we laughed together. Out of every choice I made growing up choosing sopapillas over pumpkin carving became one of the smallest decisions that ended up meaning the most.