I warm the milk slowly. I test it with my finger. If it feels friendly, it’s ready.

Milk, yeast, sugar in a bowl.

One stir. Then I walk away.

Five minutes later, I checked. Foam means we’re good. No foam means I wait a little longer and don’t panic.

Flour, salt, egg, butter go in. I mix until it looks messy — because it always does.

Then I knead. Not hard. Just steady. Push, fold, turn. When the dough stops fighting back and starts cooperating, I stop.

Cover it.

Forget about it for an hour.

Almond flour, sugar, egg white, vanilla. Sometimes almond extract — very little.

I always taste this. Always.

Too sweet? I added more almonds.

Too flat? A tiny bit more extract.

This is the part where listening matters.

When the dough rises, I press it down gently. Roll it out. It’s never a perfect rectangle. I’ve stopped caring.

I spread the filling. Leave a little edge. Fold the dough over itself.

Then I cut it into pieces. On one side of each, I make a few cuts. Not measured. Just enough to suggest claws.

I pull them apart slightly and place them on the tray.

They already look imperfect.

Good.

Egg wash on top. Almonds sprinkled — not placed.

Into the oven at 180°C / 350°F.

I don’t watch the timer.

I wait for the smell.

When the kitchen smells like butter and almonds, I check.

Golden enough?

Done.