I remember that day better than many days when everything worked out. I wanted to bake an apple pie. Everything was according to the recipe: flour, eggs, sugar, lots of cinnamon, a little hope. But the oven seemed to laugh at me. The pie did not rise. It turned out flat, sticky, and somehow offended at me.

I sat in the kitchen, looked at it, and suddenly began to cry. Not because of the pie — because I wanted something to work out. Just something.

That evening, a friend came over. She saw the pie, took a spoon and said with a serious look: “So delicious, like it fell from the sky.” And we ate it straight from the pan. Laughed. Then we made mulled wine. Then another one.

Now every October I bake a "failed pie." It's become a ritual. I don't strive for perfection. I bake to remember: mistakes are part of the taste.

When was the moment in your life when everything went wrong, but you still remembered it as something warm?