Her first attempt was a disaster.
The kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon, butter, and something deeper—brown sugar caramelizing, apples softening into jam. It smelled like Sunday afternoons. Like forgiveness. Like home.
For the crust, he guided her hands. “Cold butter, Kylie. Treat it like a bad date—keep your distance, don’t get attached. Just quick, sharp cuts.”
Kylie sliced into it. The steam rose in a fragrant cloud. She took a bite.
It was sharp. Sweet. Complex. The crust shattered then melted. It tasted like her grandmother’s hands, like the old wooden table, like the creak of the screen door on a cool autumn night.
When they announced her as the winner, Kylie didn’t cheer. She just smiled, thinking of the dented bucket and the bad date butter and the kitchen that finally, once again, smelled like home.