People ask me all the time if our apple cake is really my great-grandmother’s recipe , and I can resoundingly say— yes, it absolutely is . I’ll never share the recipe (that’s staying in the family vault), but I can tell you this: it’s been made with love, laughter, and just a touch of chaos across generations, and every bite feels like home . Growing up, we didn’t have the means to buy Christmas gifts for friends, neighbors, or coworkers. Instead, my mom would spend days baking apple cakes to share. It was a true labor of love , and she often drafted us kids into service to peel, slice, or mix —though most of the “helping” turned into squabbles over who got to lick the bowl or the beater . Even when we were sent off to bed, I’d wake to the smell of cinnamon and apples and hear Mom quietly swapping cakes in the oven at 2 a.m. She had the sharpest internal alarm clock I’ve ever known. That smell— warm apples and cinnamon —would fill the whole house. To this day, it’s the kind of scen...