My mother-in-law decided that my celebration was an excuse to feed her entire family at my expense.
“Olya, should we bring containers with us, or will they give us some there?”
I stopped grating cheese and pressed the phone more tightly to my ear.
“What containers, Larisa?”
“For the food. Mom said you’re having a lavish anniversary celebration, with a restaurant-style menu and huge portions. It would be a shame to let the leftovers go to waste.”
The kitchen suddenly became suspiciously quiet. Even the sauce simmering on the stove seemed to stop bubbling so it could listen.
“And who invited you?”
“What do you mean, who? Mom did. She said you asked her to gather all the relatives. Vitalik and I are coming straight after work.”
My anniversary was supposed to take place at a cooking studio. I had invited ten people: my parents, my father-in-law and mother-in-law, and two couples who were close friends. Ingredients had already been purchased for each person, individual workstations prepared, and personalized aprons arranged.
Twelve additional relatives carrying food containers were not part of the evening’s program.
“Larisa, I didn’t invite anyone else. Call your mother and clarify things with her.”
“But she said…”
“Then ask her.”
I ended the call and looked at my husband.
Viktor was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, and from the expression on my face, he had already figured out who had once again decided to take charge of our lives.
“Mom?” he asked.
“Your mother has opened a branch office of my anniversary party. She invited twelve people. Larisa is already getting the containers ready.”
“They got organized quickly.”
“Free salmon is excellent for strengthening family bonds.”
Viktor took out his phone.
“I’ll call her myself.”
Agafya Prokhorovna answered immediately.
“Son, I’m busy choosing a dress. Burgundy or green?”
“Mom, why did you invite people to Olya’s anniversary?”
“What people? Relatives! It’s not like I picked up strangers from the train station.”
“Olya didn’t invite them.”
“So what? You only turn fifty once. Ten people isn’t an anniversary, it’s a homeowners’ association meeting. I just added a little fun.”
“Twelve people is not ‘a little.’”
“It’s a big place. Everyone will fit. They’ll put out another table and bring more chairs. Restaurants always prepare extra food.”
I switched the call to speakerphone.
“Agafya Prokhorovna, this isn’t a restaurant. It’s a cooking master class. A separate portion of ingredients has been purchased for each participant.”
“Then divide them up. You can cut a shrimp in half.”
“You are going to call everyone yourself right now and cancel the invitation.”
My mother-in-law snorted indignantly.
“I already promised them! What will people think of me?”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to find out.”
She hung up.
The next day, we met with Inna, the studio administrator. I explained the situation.
“We can accommodate an additional group,” she said. “But only separately. They’ll have their own instructor and a different menu. For example, homemade pasta with chicken and a vegetable salad.”
“And who pays?”
“The person placing the order.”
Viktor and I exchanged glances.
“Perfect,” my husband said. “Book the second group under Agafya Prokhorovna’s name. But only after she pays personally.”
On the day of the anniversary, my mother-in-law arrived first. She was wearing a burgundy dress with metallic threads and carrying a tiny handbag that had room for only a phone, lipstick, and her absolute certainty that she was right.
She counted the place settings at our table.
“Why are there ten?”
“Because there are ten guests,” I replied.
“The others will be here soon. Ask the girl to add more chairs.”
Inna approached us carrying a tablet.
“Agafya Prokhorovna, a separate program has been prepared for your guests. All that remains is to choose the menu and pay for twelve places.”
My mother-in-law blinked.
“What do you mean, pay?”
“You invited an additional group. The price per participant is…”
When she heard the amount, Agafya Prokhorovna clutched her handbag.
“For chicken and pasta?”
“For the ingredients, workstation rental, the chef’s work, and service.”
“Put it on Olga’s bill. It’s her anniversary.”
“My order has already been paid for,” I said. “You organized the additional banquet.”
My mother-in-law pulled me aside.
“Do you want to humiliate me in front of the relatives?”
“No. Yesterday I gave you the chance to cancel everything.”
“They’re already on their way!”
“Then pay.”
Agafya Prokhorovna looked back at the beautifully set table, sighed heavily, and pulled out her card.
The payment terminal beeped.
“I hope the portions are at least decent,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“You won’t need containers,” I reassured her. “The guests will eat everything themselves.”
Ten minutes later, the relatives entered the studio. Larisa was carrying a bag full of containers. Her aunt Raisa held a box of chocolates and looked as though she had come to inspect the restaurant for compliance with health regulations.
“Come in!” my mother-in-law said cheerfully. “We’re about to start celebrating!”
Inna handed everyone aprons.
“Your work area is on the right. Today you’ll be making homemade pasta with chicken and a vegetable salad.”
Larisa hugged the bag to her chest.
“And when are we going to eat?”
“After you cook.”
“We have to cook it ourselves?”
Raisa slowly turned toward her sister.
“Agafya, you told us we were invited to a restaurant.”
“This is much more interesting than a restaurant!” my mother-in-law replied quickly. “This is how everyone celebrates nowadays. Working together brings people closer.”
“Especially when you only find out about the work once you’re standing next to the cutting board,” Raisa remarked.
It was too late to back out. They put on their aprons, washed their hands, and the chef began explaining how to knead the dough.
At first, my mother-in-law tried to take charge.
“Larisa, roll it thinner! Vitalik, don’t just stand there, cut the chicken! Raisa, you’re using too much flour!”
Five minutes later, the instructor handed her a bowl of dough.
“Since you’re so experienced, show the group the correct consistency.”
Agafya Prokhorovna got to work. The dough stuck to her fingers, her rings, and her burgundy dress. She added flour, then a little more, and eventually produced a lump that could have been used as a doorstop.
“For some reason, it’s hard,” she admitted.
“That’s because you added twice as much flour as you were supposed to,” the chef replied.
Raisa gave a satisfied snort.
“Good thing you weren’t cutting the shrimp in half.”
On our side, everything was going smoothly. We cooked salmon, laughed, and took photos. At the neighboring station, Larisa was turning the pasta machine, Vitalik was cutting chicken, and my mother-in-law was trying to scrub dough off her bracelet.
Gradually, the relatives stopped being angry. The chef turned out to be funny, the pasta was delicious, and Raisa even asked for the sauce recipe.
When both groups sat down at their tables, Agafya Prokhorovna tried to reclaim her role as hostess.
“See how wonderfully I planned everything!”
Larisa raised her fork.
“You planned to bring us here without warning and make us cook our own dinner.”
“But it turned out interesting.”
“It’ll be even more interesting when you see that I brought containers for you,” Larisa said. “You can take them home empty.”
Everyone laughed. Even Viktor.
After dinner, two cakes were brought out. Ours was a large anniversary cake, while the studio had prepared a simple berry pie for the second group as part of their program.
My mother-in-law immediately reached toward our cake.
“I want a bigger piece. I am the husband’s mother, after all.”
“Your piece is on your own plate,” I said. “And you can ask your group for extra berries. You’re their organizer, after all.”
Raisa pushed the plate of pie toward her sister.
“Eat yours. You paid so much for it that you’re obligated to appreciate every single berry.”
At the end of the evening, Larisa gathered the empty containers back into the bag.
“This is the first time I’ve ever come somewhere expecting ready-made food and gone home with a dough recipe instead.”
“At least you got something useful out of it,” Viktor said.
My mother-in-law said nothing. She was calculating the expenses and clearly realizing that grand gestures are especially beautiful when someone else is paying for them.
A few days later, she called me.
“Olya, we wanted to come out to your country house on Saturday. Can we bring Larisa and Vitalik?”
“Yes, you can. Thank you for asking.”
“Should we bring food?”
“Just bring a good mood.”
In the background, I heard Larisa’s voice:
“And don’t bring the containers! I’m never going anywhere with you carrying Tupperware again!”
From that day on, Agafya Prokhorovna never invited anyone anywhere without permission.
Apparently, twelve portions of homemade pasta turned out to be a very useful family lesson.