Everyone was always cooking, trying out a new recipe, or setting the table in a new style. I wanted to make my mark and join in the fun, but I didn’t exactly know how with the whole gang being older - and louder than I was. Our parents always encouraged us to follow our passions, and when I realized that no one was nailing it when it came to dessert, I made it my purpose to tackle baking. Luckily for me, our grandma was from Vienna (a city which in our opinion gives Parisian desserts a run for its money), and “Oma,” as we called her, took me under her wing every day after school in the kitchen, starting at age six. She rarely had a recipe to go off of, but the batters and doughs were always scented with vanilla and with a gorgeous texture. We’d laugh and stir, and with buttery hands, slide our desserts into the oven. While our baked goods rose, Oma would entertain me with stories as I tried on her jewelry and sifted through her sacred boxes and pouches of gems.

When my sisters came home from school and our parents came home from work, I still remember the feeling of watching them slice into the tarts and cakes that Oma and I had baked. Every family meal was sweeter and more memorable with the simple ingredients that we used to whip up a weeknight specialty.