Can with Tulips

There is a village in the Voronezh region. Every summer we go there with my family. Trip hassle, road troubles — we go by car, me driving. Gray asphalt, thousands of road signs. Five hours on the run, no stops. And in the end when you open the car door in front of the old house and take a breath of fresh air, so tasty, so thick that you can nearly eat it with a spoon. Some hills in the distance. Chalk hills. Whiter than white.