I have a strange habit of baking tiny pies when there's a lump in my throat and neither music, nor movies, nor conversations help. These pies are funny - with crooked edges, sometimes with cracks. But while I'm rolling out the dough, melting butter, mixing berries or apples with sugar, I can breathe easier.

I don't like big pies - I think they're too obligatory. A big pie requires guests, a knife, plates. A small one doesn't require anything except my palms and an oven. I can bake one - or ten. Eat them myself or not eat them at all - just let them cool on the windowsill.

One day I realized that these little pies are my clots of hope. Every time I feel like I've taken a wrong turn, that I've said the wrong thing again or haven't done what I promised myself, I just take a bowl and pour flour in. It's like pouring out everything heavy from inside of me - through a sieve, through my hands, through the warmth.

Usually on such evenings I stand in the kitchen barefoot, my hair in a funny bun, flour on my nose. I turn on old music, the same one to which I once wrote stupid letters or dreamed about how everything would be perfect. Now I don't expect perfection anymore. I just believe that a small pie can save the evening.

You know, if sadness had a taste, it would be something between warm dough and the sweet sourness of berries. Because sadness can also be warm. And necessary.

Sometimes in the morning I find the remains of these pies on the table. They are already cold, a little dry. But I still smile. Because they remind me: last night I chose not to give in. Even if it was like this - with a filling of strawberries and baked air.