Alms for Grandmother

I watched him for a long while before I volunteered my help. I had lingered while his large strong hands manipulating the crumbling dough between his thick fingers. "Can I help?" I asked. Alm jumped at the sound of my voice, his reverie broken by my question. His face flushed the color of the apples on the counter before him as he stammered his refusal. Everyone else in the kitchen disapeared like shadows in the sunlight at my approach. Caught with his hands in the gooey dough, Alm knew there was no way to deign his guilt. What he didn't know, I was more curious than angry. My eyes shifted from his face to the tattered yellow paper on the counter. It read-

1 cup flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 lb butter,
2 tablespoons water

apples
orange peel

1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup butter
1/4 teaspoon salt
cinnamon
allspice

"This your recipe?"
"No", he answered, "my grandmother's."
He would not let me help, nor did I offer my assistance again. But I stood and watched the ungainly janitor create the most delicious pastry to ever come out of that kitchen.
"Alm, you have no direction or measurements written down. How do you make it come out so perfect?"
"Grandmother would make this every Christmas. When I got older and she was sick, I would make it."
I could have sent him to the hole for stealing food. Instead I asked to for a copy of his recipe. I made sure he made enough for all the kitchen workers for his impromptu going away party.
The next day, Alm was shipped to a different facility to serve the remainder of his life sentience for killing his grandmother.