I live alone, in a tiny house with a kitchen for which the term “galley” is a compliment. I rarely cook; dinner is usually a salad or a bowl of ramen. But if I have a holiday tradition, it’s thoroughly covering my counter (and often my floor) with flour and sugar, cocoa and cracker crumbs, bringing back memories of all my matriarchs. As I mix and bake and chill, in the scent of chocolate and cinnamon and pastry, it’s as if these women are all in my kitchen for a little while. Moravian Stretched Apple Strudel.