Peculiar Girl. Part 4

So, after New York, I was kinda… mellowing out? Like, don’t get me wrong, I love the rush of meeting new people and doing crazy stuff, but this time I just wanted something chill. Something that felt like a pause button. My mom suggested visiting my great;aunt Clara in Vermont — “It’s peaceful there, Steph. Trees, quiet, fresh air. You need it”. I rolled my eyes at first (classic mom move), but then I thought, why not?

Turns out, she was right. Aunt Clara’s place is this old farmhouse surrounded by fields and woods. No skyscrapers, no honking cars, just birds and the sound of wind in the trees. At first, I was like, Okay, what now? I mean, I’m used to constant action, you know? But then I started noticing things.

Like the way the light changes in the afternoon, turning everything gold. Or how the apples in the orchard have different shades of red — some deep and dark, others bright and shiny. Aunt Clara caught me staring at them one morning.

“You’re admiring my apples?” she asked, smiling.

“Yeah”, I said. “They’re… interesting. Each one is different. It’s like they have their own personality”.

Aunt Clara laughed. “That’s my girl. Always seeing what others miss”.

Then she handed me a basket. “Want to help me pick some? I’m making a pie. The old;fashioned way — no store;bought stuff”.

I’d never really baked before. Like, I’ve microwaved cookies, sure, but real baking? With flour and butter and rolling pins? It sounded… intimidating. But also kind of cool.

So there we were, in her cozy kitchen with the windows open, letting in the fresh air. Aunt Clara showed me how to mix the dough — “Not too much, not too little, just enough to feel right” — and how to slice the apples just so. She told me stories about when she was my age, about her first pie (which apparently was a disaster), and about how her mom taught her the same recipe.

While the pie was in the oven, filling the house with this amazing cinnamon;apple smell, I grabbed my sketchbook. I started drawing the apples we’d picked, trying to capture their colors and shapes. Aunt Clara peeked over my shoulder.

“That’s beautiful, Steph”, she said softly. “You really see them”.

Later, when we sat on the porch with slices of warm pie and glasses of cold milk, I felt this weird sense of… calm. It wasn’t boring. It was just different. Like I’d discovered a new speed setting for life — not fast;forward, not pause, but a gentle, steady play.

I took a picture of the pie, the sketchbook, and our two glasses on the porch table. Sent it to my parents with the caption: “Found the secret ingredient: Aunt Clara’s time. Best trip ever”.

They probably thought I was joking. But I wasn’t. Sometimes the most interesting adventures aren’t about jumping off things or meeting parkour kids. Sometimes they’re about slowing down enough to notice the apples, the stories, the quiet magic hiding in plain sight.

P.S. Aunt Clara promised to teach me how to make bread next time. And I’m bringing my sketchbook. Who knew a farm in Vermont could be so inspiring?


Stephaniia
https://t.me/stefanias_world

MY RHYTHM
yandex.ru/rythm/profile/@019d3b535e807367b553f01d479beaef