This final observation highlights an essential theme: the cyclical nature of time and the connection between the past and the present. The narrator reflects, "I don't know why mine [the rolls] never turn out like hers, or why my tears flow so freely when I prepare them—perhaps I am as sensitive to onions as Tita, my great-aunt, who will go on living as long as there is someone who cooks her recipes." The past doesn't need to be called upon; it is always present. Scents consistently bring the past to the forefront, not just for Tita but also for her sister Gertrudis (the smell of chocolate), her lover Juan (the scent of roses), and Pedro (Tita's fragrance of jasmine mixed with cooking aromas). As Tita notes, "smells have the power to evoke the past, bringing back sounds and even other smells that have no match in the present. Tita liked to take a deep breath and let the characteristic smoke and smell transport her through the recesses of her memory." This connection is unintentional. While recovering at John's, Tita is rejuvenated by a bowl of oxtail soup from Chencha, which provides more than mere physical sustenance:

With the first sip, Nacha appeared beside her, stroking her hair as she ate, just as she had done when Tita was young and unwell, kissing her forehead repeatedly. . . . As always throughout her life, with a hint of onion, the tears began. She cried as she hadn't cried since the day she was born. How wonderful it was to have a long talk with Nacha.

The merging of Nacha and Tita, and Esperanza and Tita's great-niece into a unified consciousness, is rooted in their shared experiences of the kitchen, food, and scents, which is tangibly represented by the recipe book that miraculously survives the fire:

When Esperanza, my mother, returned from her wedding trip, all that she found under the remains of what had been the ranch was this cookbook, which she bequeathed to me when she died. Each recipe within it tells the story of a love buried.

In this way, the past and present become one.