She started with the paring knife
Held it tightly in her right hand
The knuckle of her index finger
Pressed tightly against the base of the blade.
Deftly, she pulled the knife towards her
piercing the tight red skin of the McIntosh apple.
One. Long. Pull.
As she slowly spun the apple in her left hand.

Sitting in my father’s captain’s chair across from her
My eyes were level with her hands
As she stood at the kitchen table.
At her right elbow, a metal colander of rinsed apples
Was perched atop a Pyrex pie plate.
In front of her, the largest bowl of her colored set,
The deep-blue-sky one,
stood ready to receive the skins before they were discarded.

How did her large hands perform this delicate task, I wondered.
Would my small hands ever be able
To match her quick, elegant movements
As she shaved thin strips of skin from the white meat of the apples.

Next the apples needed to be sliced very thin
A task performed with the same paring knife.
With my chin in my hands,
I watched as the slices fell like a waterfall
Into the bowl, one after the other.
My excitement started to build.
My part was coming up.

After all the apples were sliced,
My mother measured a cup of sugar, a teaspoon of cinnamon,
Breadcrumbs, raisins, and a small pan of melted butter Into the bowl.

With the tip of her baby finger, she tested the butter,
making sure it was cool enough,
Before she slid the bowl across the table to me.“Go ahead,” she said as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
“You know what to do.”

After pushing my shirtsleeves up above my elbow,
And repositioning myself to kneel on the captain’s chair,
I reached both hands into the bowl.
The grains of sugar felt rough,
while the warm butter oozed between my fingers.
I kept reaching, down below the cool apples,
Scooping handfuls of the mixture
And depositing them on the top of the heap.
Over and over I tossed the strudel filling
Until the apples were coated evenly.

“I’m done!” I pronounced proudly to my mother,
Offering the bowl for her inspection.
“It looks just right,” she said,
As she wiped my hands with a moist paper towel.

I could only watch as my mother prepared the dough,
Mixing flour and egg, stirring with a fork,
Then forming a ball that would sit under a warm bowl for ten minutes.
Everything had to be just right for the next part:
The stretching of the dough.

Mom shook her special strudel cloth,
A brown, yellow and white plaid linen tablecloth
Used only for this purpose,
And pressed it smooth on the table with her hands.
Then came the flour before the dough was set down
In the center of the cloth.With her wooden rolling pin with the red handles,
Mom pushed firmly in every direction
Until the dough was about the size of a pie crust.

Now came the magic.
With hands greased with melted butter
Mom laid the circle of dough on top of her fisted hands.
Gently and slowing she pulled the dough apart
Stretching it further and further.
Then she threw the dough into the air with a spinning motion,
Like a pizza maker,
Always catching it on the backs of her hands.
The dough grew larger and larger
And thinner and thinner.
Eventually it was too large to spin
So she spread it on her arms up to her elbows
And continued stretching.
She needed to move quickly or her hands would break through the dough
And she would need to start all over again.

“It should be thin enough that you can read a newspaper through it,”
She told me, laughing.
After she laid it gently on the cloth,
I stood up to look.
Sure enough, I could see the plaid pattern of the tablecloth
Clearly through the strudel dough!
“How do you do that?” I asked, amazed, making her smile.

Mom let me dump the apple mixture onto the dough,
Then she spread it with her hands
And ever so gently rolled it up from one end to the other.
Then she formed it into a crescent shape
And lay it carefully on the baking sheet.

Everyone raved about Mom’s apple strudel.
Since my mother is German,
People thought it was from some old family recipe,
But it was actually from the Betty Crocker cookbook
She got when she got married.

When someone asked her for the recipe,
Mom gave it, offering to demonstrate
The delicate process for making the dough.

Nothing in the world tastes better
Than Mom’s apple strudel.

After my mother died,
I carried on the tradition of her strudel,
Usually for holidays or special occasions.
Sometimes my hands break through the dough
And I have to start over.
Sometimes I forget the breadcrumbs
And the filling is runny.
Strudel making requires patience
And love.

For me, the best part will always be
Reaching spread fingers into the apple mixture
And turning it over and over.
Just like Mom taught me.

July 2025