The vintage yellow linoleum squeaked softly under my boots.

If the tin wasn’t hidden in her closet, it was probably in her baking pantry.

Grandma Beatrice had spent half her life standing at this exact counter.

I remembered her tapping her index finger on the solid oak table while she waited for yeast dough to rise.

She used to tell me baking was just chemistry with strict rules.

She always said a good thick crust was the best way to hide a messy filling.

I opened the double doors of the tall pantry.