As a child, summer smelled like strawberries. And happiness — of my mother's pie, which she baked only once a year, when the berries were truly ripe. Not the ones that look pretty, but the ones that are sweet to the fingertips.

I remember how she didn't write down the recipe. She mixed everything by eye. "The main thing is with your soul," my mother said and laughed. She rolled out the dough, and I stole pieces while she wasn't looking. The whole kitchen was in flour, sugar, laughter. It wasn't just a pie. It was a sign that everything was fine with us. That summer had come.

I recently baked it again. Not according to the recipe. From memory. At first it seemed that it wouldn't work. Too simple a set of products: flour, butter, eggs, strawberries and sugar. But when it was baked, I almost cried. Because it was That Very Taste. The taste of childhood. The taste of love.

I guess everyone has such a recipe. The one that works not because it is right, but because it comes from the heart. And when you bake - no matter for whom - you seem to transmit warmth. A small miracle with a golden crust.

Now I rarely bake. Only when I feel that something important is needed - not with my body, but with my soul. As if memories, tenderness and hope are baked in the oven, that someone will say: "This is the most delicious pie I have ever eaten."

And I will answer, smiling: "It is made with love."