Makoviichyky (маковійчики, Makoviy poppy cookies)

Poppy is never quiet. Toast it gently and it wakes the whole room, nutty and dark, then the honey follows, warm and floral, and suddenly these little cookies know exactly which feast they belong to. Makoviichyky are small on purpose: one bite, two at most, enough for a tray that keeps moving around the table.

The one thing that decides them is the poppy. Raw seeds sit politely in dough; toasted and lightly crushed, they give oil, perfume, and that soft sandy crackle under your teeth. Aunt Nadia wrote only "rub the poppy until it smells right" in one letter, which was no help at all until I did it badly twice. Then the smell changed. Of course it did.

Shape them your grandmother's way if you have one: rounds, little crescents, pinched diamonds, a thumbprint in the middle. Mine are squat rounds brushed with honey while warm, because the glaze catches on the poppy and makes them shine like a jar opened in the litnya kuhnia, the summer kitchen.

Make a full batch. Holiday cookies look foolish in small numbers.