Sometimes happiness hides in the most ordinary things. In a warm bowl of dough, in flour on the table, in how you accidentally taste a sweet apple right while cooking. All this is not about cooking, of course. It's about home.

When I was little, my grandmother always made pies early in the morning. She got up before sunrise, quietly, so as not to wake anyone, and kneaded the dough in a large bowl with a blue rim. It seemed to me then that she was casting a spell. And then you wake up - and the kitchen smells of apples, cinnamon and ... care.

Now I live alone, and sometimes there is too much silence in the house. But when I bake, the silence becomes cozy. I talk to my grandma in my head, I think about people who are dear to me, and about those I don’t know yet, but maybe I will meet.

Happiness is not always loud. Sometimes it is when you have a little dough stuck to your fingers, and you are in no hurry to shake it off. Because at that moment you feel good. Just good.