My grandmother taught me to bake it when I was little. It all started with the way she washed the apples - slowly, carefully, with respect. Then she mixed the dough by hand, without mixers - just a spoon, a bowl and love. She would say: "The dough feels your mood, take your time." I always watched her cut the apples into thin slices, evenly and beautifully. Then I generously sprinkled them with cinnamon, sugar and a little lemon zest. When the cake was baking, the house was filled with the magical smell of childhood. We sat in the kitchen, drank mint tea and talked about life. It seemed like time had stopped. Now I am baking this cake for my son. And I always think of my grandmother, who taught me not only recipes, but also patience, attention and care. Her cake is more than a dessert. It is a piece of the soul that lives in every piece.