There was more than a touch of mystery in my grandmother’s rugelach.
When I was very young, I never sought to unravel it.
My brother and I would await her arrival, plant our feet as firmly as we could to be ready for her hugs—such was the force of her love, then beg her to make rugelach for us. The process, which always took a couple of days, culminated with rich crescent-shaped miracles emerging from the oven, glazed and golden, filling the house with the scents of sugar and cinnamon. We could barely wait for them to cool, and would snatch them off of the plate as soon as we were allowed, each bite a revelation of sweet and spice, fruit and nut.
As I got old enough to wonder how she managed it, I would go into the kitchen to observe, learn.
At her task, she was all business…
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