GRANDMA’S STRUDEL

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.

Betty Bleen © November 2018
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