{geni:about_me} Yesterday while talking to a friend she told me a story of how her husband tried to recreate his Grandmother's strudel that was always made for Rosh Hashanah; there was no recipe of course. So before she passed the family watched her as she took her hand scooped out the flour , then they measured it, she added the egg in the middle,etc., well needless to say, it wasn't the same. This brought me to happy tears, and warmed my heart, because when Barry and I started dating (1962) I remember going to his house through the mud-room door and Grandma would be there, her sweet little self stretching the dough with mom making apple strudel. As my friend kept telling herstory ,the picture of that popped into my mind as well as the aroma. I wish I would have had watched her then, but it just wouldn't be the same!