Isn't it ironic...don't you think?

You entered the room. Light scent of cinnamon twirling in the room, coaxing and teasing you with delicate dash of fresh summer Granny Smith apples’ aroma. A mass of white powder tinged with the transparent pale white crystal like fine particles sat on top of the kitchen counter. Your mother was busily preparing her ‘signature dish’. A strand of her hair came off from her ponytail. Carefully she dabbed her tiny sweat with the pad of her fragile thumb. The hard surface of the spatula bashed the apples and covered them in sultry brown sugar. One…two…three you counted under your breath. Her sluggish motion transfixed you as she cut and extracted the ripe juice from the small yellow thing that you called lemon. ‘You need to add a hint of lemon to apple. They’re friends,’ she once said and her words quickly turned into my personal gastronomic adage.