Empanada Dreams | Sueños de Empanadas
"A woman escaping her past finds a fresh start—and unexpected love—in an empanada shop"
Empanada Dreams
Sueños de Empanadas
I ran from Buenos Aires with nothing but the clothes on my back and a recipe for empanadas.
"Looking for work?" the shop owner asked when I walked in.
"Can you teach me to make these?"
"I can teach anyone. But why should I teach you?"
"Because I have nowhere else to go."
Her name was Silvia, and she'd built this shop from nothing. Argentinean empanadas in a Texas border town—impossible, they said. She proved them wrong.
"Where are you running from?" she asked after my first week.
"A man. A life. A version of myself I don't want to be."
"Those are good reasons to run."
She taught me everything—the fold, the seal, the perfect ratio of meat to onion. My hands learned muscle memory while my heart slowly healed.
"You're getting better," she said.
"At empanadas or at living?"
"Both, I hope."
The shop became my sanctuary. Flour on my apron, Spanish on my tongue, safety in the routine.
"Why do you work so hard?" I asked Silvia.
"Because hard work heals. And because my mother taught me that empanadas are love made edible."
"Do you believe that?"
"I believe in anything that gets me through."
I fell in love slowly—with the shop, the town, the woman who'd given me refuge without asking questions.
"You're staring," she said one evening.
"I'm grateful."
"For what?"
"For this place. For you. For the chance to start over."
She kissed me over the prep table, tasting like chimichurri and patience.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," she said.
"Neither did I."
"Is it okay that it did?"
"It's the only okay thing in my life right now."
We built together—the business and something more. I learned to trust again. She learned to share again.
"Partners?" she asked when I'd been there a year.
"In what sense?"
"Every sense."
"Yes."
The empanada shop has my name on it now—both our names. The customers call us the empanada ladies.
"You made it," Silvia says sometimes. "From running to running something."
"You made it possible."
"You made it real."
Empanada dreams—where running leads somewhere good, and fresh starts come in pastry shells.