The kitchen always smelled like cinnamon on Sundays. That was Grandma’s rule: no sad faces, and always something baking. I was only six when I first stood on a stool beside her, hands covered in flour, giggling as she showed me how to knead dough.

She didn’t need a recipe. Everything was measured by feel — a pinch here, a handful there. She said the secret ingredient was joy. I thought she was joking, but I understood later.

Now, years later, I find myself baking when I miss her. The smell of cinnamon brings her back. I still use her old wooden spoon, still hum the tune she sang. And when the pie is ready and I take the first bite — it’s not just dessert. It’s history. It’s love.

In every warm crumble, she lives on.