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It’s in my mother’s Croatian heritage to create strudel filled with cheese.
Still in the kitchen at ninety-two, she bakes delicious pastries to please.
Scrumptiously packed with succulent cholesterol and her ingredients of love.
She covers the outer edge with a pound of butter, that I’ll never tire of.
Taking a huge bite, it crunches ever so delicately on your tongue.
Combined with sugar and decadent dairy, it takes me back when I was young.
Her food has always brought harmony and flavorful opulence to our home.
That is one of the reasons I still live with her today, and failed to roam.
The relationship between mother and daughter has never been fake.
And if we’ve ever fought, we would make up with her chocolate cake.