We were making vareniki. It wasn't the first time and probably wasn't the last one. My mum was sitting near refrigerator in our small kitchen, while the last rays of the sun were hiding behind orange ambries. You know, there are days when everything seems like honey and when you remember them, your thoughts are sparkling and the old music is playing around. And sometimes there are simple moments which look like eternity, perfection, which are completely finished. That day was one of those. Calmness is a huge whale and it leaves in our house. My mum was talking about her childhood, how her parents and she had been picking up blackberries and mushrooms. Sometimes I'm thinking about being there with them. I'm sneaking along these paths behind them. I don't even have to try hard. I hear their voices: my grandad is talking about the importance of being patient, he is young. He says: ‘sometimes you just have to wait'. It is about chanterelles, hiding in the moss, but I know, he is talking about something bigger than just a mushroom. My mum gave me the dough, it is ready to be rolled. She continued. Mum spend her early years in a small town. Unlike the big ones there are things which are not changing ever. Like my granny's mum and her mum they used to roll the dough with the bottle. The tradition is always a small thing. After a long long day in the woods the whole family gathered in the kitchen talking and making dinner. And the bottle was there. That evening they were together. My mum and herself, but 30 years younger. The girl of my age was there in our kitchen. Mum was making absolutely identical waves on the top of vareniki. The plate was almost filled with them. It became darker outside. lanterns lit and reflected in the window like little fireflies. The water have boiled. My mum put the vareniki into the water. We were waiting. We were quiet. Only the old music of the memories was playing around.