I used to watch my grandmother roll dough paper thin. It stretched across the old wooden table, hung drape-like over the sides. From the stove she retrieved cabbage and onions, fried in butter. Other days it was an apple-cinnamon mixture or a concoction of butter, sugar, raisins and poppyseeds. Whatever the ingredients, she’d toss the mixture onto the dough, spread and smooth it down with her weathered hands. Then she’d gently tug and roll the dough into a log and place it on a baking sheet to bake till golden brown. If I shut my eyes, I can envision her in that checkered apron, gray hair tidy in a bun at the back of her head as she took the pan out of the oven and presented it to her family with pride. Grandma’s strudel, I can almost smell it still. hot from the oven, baked with love.