The ringing tone is in the phone receiver: “Hellooo,” I hear my father`s thick voice. “Hi, mate, what are you doing?” The voice becomes cheerful: “Aaah, call me back later, I am making popcorn.” “Are you, really, I will make it too,” and I hang up the phone. I imagine him next to the village wood stove, the sound of the wood in it, the popping of the popcorns in the pot … I turn on the hot plate, I take the pot, the oil … the memories come flooding back.

A cold winter night, the city is snuggled under a thick snow blanket. The family has gathered in the worm kitchen, the song of the popping popcorn is heard, the aroma is wafting out, the lid is lifting, and the white butterfly-like popcorn is beginning to jump out of the pot. My big brother and I are looking forward to the first batch being poured onto the blue tray, we are hungrily filling our mouths… My childhood memory is spilling into a smile.

I am taking a handful of the blue popcorn – small ink-coloured kernels, the hot plate is on, the pot is hot, I am pouring oil … I don`t have to measure the quantity, my hand itself knows when to lift up the bottle. The oil is sizzling and I am pouring in the kernels, dusting them with a little salt. The aroma of the heated corn is wafting out, I am stirring them with two-three movements, and I cover them with the lid. Five-six seconds and the kernels commence their dance, they rebel, pop like fireworks on New Year`s Eve. They fall silent … an errant kernel pops … another one after it … silence.

I open the lid. The aroma hits my nose. White, small clouds are smiling and they bring me back the taste of my childhood …”Maaate, I am ready, I made popcorn, now tell me how your day went…”