The pastry, pulled and stretched until the tablecloth was seen clearly beneath. So thin a nail could tear the whole in a second. She‘d knuckled it over the floured cloth, gently, gently. The apple slices, enormous, placed on the translucent pastry, surely too heavy. Lemon juice rained down to keep the slices greenish yellow, the raisins, plump and brown, full of their own sugary importance, sprinkled over the top, followed by broken nuts. Too much? She still had the sugar and spices to add. Should it be nutmeg and cinnamon or cloves? Her mother, always, was at her elbow, frowning. A drizzle of melted fat. Finally satisfied she began the delicate task of rolling the strudel with the help of the tablecloth beneath. Her hands would not touch the pastry now. Scared in case she dropped it and it would break, much as she had held her newborn daughter, she manoeuvred it onto the tray with the baking parchment then into the oven.
She was transported back to her childhood, coming in through the back door from school to that heavenly smell of hot apples and cinnamon.
Dusting the warm strudel with icing sugar she wondered what her mother would have thought about her endeavour. Would she have tasted and exclaimed? Would she have compared? Why bother wondering, she knew, she always knew. She put herself through these contortions time and again knowing the answer never changed whatever she did or made.
Her fork broke the top of the crisp dough and bit into the soft apple and raisin mixture, tempered by the nuts. A first taste and her face broke into a smile. Not as good, not just good enough, but better, much, much better. Her daughter came through the back door, took the taste test, kissed her fingers.
Liz's book, Jewish Folk Tales in Britain and Ireland, was republished by The History Press 2025. She has been a Pitch Perfect at Bloody Scotland and has flash published in Spillwords and Aspiers.
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