(essay)

This Saturday I came to my grandmother in the city of my childhood – Pereyaslav. Unfortunately, this rarely happens: it always seems that it is impossible to carve out time for relatives, amid the constant hustle and bustle between studies, work, city routine…

But finally I’m here. Grandma always found peace in cooking. Her favorite ritual was to prepare breakfast for the whole family early in the morning before anyone woke up. Now, cooking every day is not for anyone – the son has moved to the capital, and the husband is gone. Despite everything, my grandmother still loves to cook and loves to do it with me every time.

No wonder we started cooking right away. This time I came with the ingredients for a fruit cake. Grandma raised her lips slightly and began to work. She skillfully kneaded the dough with her delicate hands, wrinkled from life experience. Her facial expression always remained unbroken – soft smiling. Light blond hair was always wrapped in a scarf, and a special light yellow apron, which was given to her by her grandfather, was always worn over the clothes. In the process of cooking, her eyes shone with a blue piercing bright light, this is the very light that taught me to believe, understand and do good even in my childhood. They are always full of boundless and unconditional love that disarms even the worst enemy.

“The cake is ready!” At last, Grandmother gasped, grabbed the gloves and we ran to see what happened. After taking out the cake, the grandmother’s stingy tear ran down her sincere barely noticeable smile and at the same moment pierced my heart. Immediately after that, the grandmother looked at the portrait of the grandfat oneher hanging above the table and said that the apple pie was his favorite…