A box full of slices
At heart, humans are natural explorers. As children, we lack any inhibitions, eagerly investigating hidden corners, opening forbidden doors, and peeking into tightly sealed bags. Later in life, upbringing teaches us that such behavior is often inappropriate, but our curiosity remains—it simply becomes something we learn to manage.
As adults, we understand the power of curiosity well enough to direct it with our actions. I remember Grandma deliberately leaving various boxes around the apartment. Of course, we grandchildren would eagerly open them, convinced that Grandma wouldn’t notice. Each box contained some little treasure, but one in particular stood out—sitting on a low shelf by the balcony doors in the kitchen. It was a simple, printed metal box filled with soft, fluffy yellow slices that we eagerly devoured, knowing that Grandma would soon bake more.
When Grandma asked how the box could be empty, we would feign ignorance. She would simply smile, seat us at the table, and pour fragrant linden tea into delicate enamel cups. The sweetness of that simple pastry, washed down with tea, was one of the most delightful treats Grandma offered us. It wasn't just the taste of the pastry that enchanted us—Grandma's hands smelled of it and were as soft as sponge cake, adding to the magic of those moments.
Officially, this pastry had a different name, but that hardly mattered to us. We always referred to it as "slices" because Grandma would cut it like bread and then slice it into smaller pieces. A few years later, my brother and I had our fill of these slices when our father began baking them using Grandma's recipe. Nevertheless, every time we visited Grandma, we would check if the box was full, and we always made sure to have at least one piece. Grandma never disappointed us—the box was always filled with slices.