There are evenings when you want silence. Not sad, not ringing - just soft, like a blanket. At such moments, I do not call anyone, do not answer messages and do not turn on a TV series. I go to the kitchen. My frying pan with a slightly scratched handle, a saucepan with a peeling lid, a spoon with a curved back are already waiting there. It is as if they understand me - and do not ask questions.

For me, cozy evenings smell of cream, garlic, a pinch of nutmeg and the damp wood of a cutting board. I love how time slows down in the kitchen — like a portal opens between the first sizzle of oil and the last breath of the kettle where I don’t have to be pretty, happy, productive. I just am.

The first thing I cook almost automatically is pasta with fried mushrooms and sage. But not the kind that you cook in 10 minutes while you’re distracted by your phone feed. The kind you have to step into: clean the mushrooms, chop them by hand, fry them until golden brown and crisp, until the whole kitchen is filled with the aroma of the forest. Add a little cream, a drop of wine (yes, right in the pan, not in the glass), and then cook the pasta in this sauce so that it absorbs everything. This dish is like a hug — not passionate, but warm and long.

I don’t know if other people have the habit of cooking for the feeling of home. I do. Even if there’s only me at the table. Especially if there’s only me. It’s my form of self-care. When everything falls apart, when I don’t want to talk, I take out the onion, start chopping it, and suddenly I understand that life is not that hard. You just need to add a little salt.

Cosiness is not pajamas and candles. It is when you know how to give yourself warmth. Even if there is no one to set the table for two.

My second recipe is baked pumpkin with honey, thyme and goat cheese. I cooked it on one particularly difficult day. My heart was like a porcelain cup into which something heavy had been dropped. I couldn’t talk. I just took out the pumpkin, peeled it, cut it into cubes. Then I poured honey over it, sprinkled it with herbs and left it in the oven. This is not just a dish. This was the moment when I gave myself permission to be silent. And you know, after 30 minutes the kitchen smelled not only of food. It smelled of a beginning.

Sometimes cozy evenings happen spontaneously. For example, when it snows and I decide to bake something “in case of guests” who aren’t coming. My pear and rosemary pie is the result of one of those evenings. I add a little cinnamon to the dough, not because it’s in the recipe, but because the smell reminds me of my childhood. And on top are slices of juicy pear and rosemary leaves. Not everyone likes it, but I do. Its tartness is a reminder that even soft things can have a character.

Food cooked for yourself doesn’t have to be perfect. The pie can crack, the pasta can overcook, the cheese can run. The main thing is that you can taste it. And that’s the coziest thing there is.

On evenings like these, I sometimes talk to myself. Is it funny? But I really do sometimes ask out loud: “Would you like some raspberry tea or lemon tea?” and I answer. It’s like learning to be your own company. To be your own home.

I don’t search for recipes by search engine. I compose them from memory, from my mood. This is how my corn and ginger soup is born, which I cook only in February. Or mulled wine with cherries and anise, which saved me that evening when my hands and thoughts were frozen. Or chocolate mousse, which I whip up only if the house is quiet.

I realized: coziness is not an interior, but a state that you can create. Sometimes through taste, sometimes through the warmth of a cup, sometimes simply through what you allow yourself.

You allow yourself not to be productive. You allow yourself not to write to anyone. You allow yourself to pour more cheese, even if “it’s not allowed at night.” You allow yourself, in the end, to eat everything from your favorite spoon, standing by the window.