My mother-in-law thanked only my husband for my holiday table. So I decided to take her rules literally.
“Pavlusha, you are such a wonderful man! The duck simply melts in your mouth. And the salads? You can tell right away — a firm male hand. Learn from him, Natasha, while my son is giving you these master classes.”
Lidia Borisovna carefully dabbed her lips with a paper napkin and looked at me over her glasses with the air of a crowned ruler handing out charity.
I was sitting at the head of the table, calmly drinking mineral water. The duck that was now “melting in my mother-in-law’s mouth” had been marinated by me for twelve hours in orange juice and spices. The salads, which required jewel-like precision in cutting, had taken half of my day off. My husband Pavel had done exactly one thing in the kitchen all day: he moved the finished bird from the baking tray onto the serving platter.
“Yes, Mom, it turned out tasty,” Pavel mumbled good-naturedly, devouring his second helping. He sincerely did not notice the insult, assuming that his mother was simply throwing a compliment “into the air,” one that was supposed to bounce off and touch everyone present.
But Lidia Borisovna did not believe in ricochets. She aimed directly. In her worldview, Pavlik was a golden boy, a domestic genius, and the center of the universe, even if all he did was breathe in a freshly cleaned apartment. I, in this coordinate system, was listed as something like service staff who had simply not been given a badge or a salary.
“And do you know, Pavlik, why your meat is so juicy?” my mother-in-law raised her fork instructively. “Because you surely washed it with soap before baking it! I read in a magazine once: meat must be washed with laundry soap to remove all the negative energy of the butcher and get rid of harmful toxins. Only men intuitively sense such subtleties!”
I sighed inwardly. Leaving this parade of ignorance unanswered was simply dangerous for everyone’s health.
“Lidia Borisovna,” I said calmly, pushing my plate aside. “Washing raw meat, especially with soap, is not only pointless but harmful. Bacteria such as campylobacter spread with tiny droplets of water all over the sink and countertop within a one-meter radius. And the alkali in soap destroys the protein structure, turning the top layer into shoe leather. Only proper heat treatment kills infections, not bath procedures.”
My mother-in-law froze with her mouth open. Her authority had just been derailed by the basic laws of chemistry and sanitation.
“Oh, of course!” she squealed, her face turning red in blotches. “How could we compare to great accountants! All you know how to do is shuffle your dry numbers, but in the kitchen you need soul, intuition! You have never had any of that, so Pavlusha has to carry the burden for both of you!”
Lidia Borisovna puffed up with indignation and pursed her lips like a chicken’s tail that the cook had forgotten to singe before boiling broth.
“You are absolutely right, Lidia Borisovna,” I smiled the brightest and most sincere smile I was capable of. “Pavel has a real gift. I simply have no right to bury his talent. Since he does everything so magnificently, next weekend, when you come with Aunt Zina to celebrate the anniversary of your move to the city, Pasha alone will cook and set the table. I won’t even touch the stove. Why ruin the master’s masterpieces?”
A heavy silence hung in the room. Pavel stopped chewing.
“Natash, what are you talking about?” he asked uncertainly. “I have fishing planned for Saturday…”
“It’s canceled, son!” my mother-in-law snapped vengefully, not realizing the trap. “Show your wife how guests should be welcomed! Let her learn!”
All the following week, Pavel tried to pretend that my ultimatum was a joke. But on Friday evening, when he discovered a perfectly clean and empty refrigerator, he understood: an accountant’s threats were never separate from action.
“Natash, seriously,” he shuffled around the kitchen, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know how to make those… rolls of yours. Or French-style meat.”
“The internet will help you, darling,” I said, settling comfortably on a bar stool with a glass of tea and a book. “Your mother believes in you. And so do I.”
Saturday turned into a branch of hell on earth for my husband. First came the trip to the market, from which Pavel returned wide-eyed and with an empty wallet.
“Did they feed this beef with gold or something?!”
Then the cooking process began.
I watched it all with a faint smirk, not interfering. Pavel tried to keep an eye on the boiling potatoes, chop salads, and marinate meat all at the same time. Two hours later, his shirt was covered in flour stains, sweat had appeared on his forehead, and his index finger was wrapped in a bandage. The kitchen looked as if a landmine stuffed with mayonnaise and vegetable peels had exploded in it.
“God, my back hurts so much…” he groaned by evening, sinking heavily onto a stool. “And my legs are buzzing. Natash, how do you manage all of this after work?”
“Soul and intuition, Pasha. Only those,” I replied calmly, turning a page.
At exactly six in the evening, the doorbell rang. Lidia Borisovna floated into the apartment accompanied by her sister, Aunt Zina. Both ladies smelled strongly of heavy perfume and were anticipating a celebration.
They marched into the living room and sat at the table. I modestly took a seat at the edge. Pavel, his face red, steamed, and slightly wild-eyed, began bringing out the dishes.
It was a pitiful sight. The chicken, which he had decided to bake instead of duck, was burned to coal in some places and alarmingly pale in others. The mashed potatoes looked more like construction paste, and the vegetables in the salad were chopped into pieces so large they could have been served at a zoo.
Lidia Borisovna cast a contemptuous glance over the table. Her eyebrows climbed upward. At that moment, she completely forgot her own legend about her “son the cook.” Her usual reflex acted faster than her memory.
“Natalya!” my mother-in-law said loudly and with drawn-out outrage, addressing me. “What kind of mockery is this? Did you decide to starve my sister? What kind of presentation is this? The chicken is burned! The mashed potatoes are like putty! Couldn’t you, just once in your life, make an effort for your own mother-in-law and cook properly?”
Aunt Zina nodded in agreement, pushing away the plate with the blackened bird in disgust.
I slowly took a sip of water.
“Lidia Borisovna,” my voice was quiet but clear. “As we agreed last time, Pavel cooked everything today. I did not touch a single product. You yourself said that he has talent, and I only ruin food.”
My mother-in-law faltered. Her eyes darted around.
“Nonsense!” she tried to wriggle out of it. “Pavlusha works, he gets tired! It is a wife’s direct duty to feed her husband and his family! And you are just a lazy woman who…”
“Enough.”
The word was not loud, but it cracked so sharply that both ladies flinched. Pavel stood in the kitchen doorway, gripping a dirty kitchen towel in his hands. His usually good-natured face was hard now, and there was an expression in his eyes I had never seen before.
He walked to the table and stood beside me.
“Mom. Stop,” Pavel’s voice trembled with restrained emotion. “Natasha cooked the duck last time. And the salads. And she baked the cake. She stood at the stove for two days while I slept or watched TV. I simply moved the finished meat onto a plate. And you thanked me, knowing the truth perfectly well, only to hurt and humiliate my wife.”
“Pavlusha, my boy, what are you saying…” Lidia Borisovna bleated, pressing her hands to her chest. “She must have forced you…”
“Nobody forced me!” Pavel roared, throwing the towel onto the table. “I understood everything myself today! Today I felt on my own skin what hellish, backbreaking labor this is. Labor that you — and I too, to be honest — took for granted. I was a blind idiot who thought comfort and food simply materialized in the house by themselves. And you, Mom, knowing how much effort Natasha puts into our home, deliberately wiped your feet on her. For what? To flatter your ego?”
The room became very quiet. Lidia Borisovna gulped air like a fish thrown onto shore. Her usual world, where her son was always on her side against “that woman,” was crumbling before her eyes.
“My… my heart…” my mother-in-law grabbed her chest, deciding to bring out the heavy artillery. “Zina, the drops! My own son is driving me to this!”
Pavel sighed heavily, walked to the cabinet, took out an electronic blood pressure monitor, and placed it in front of his mother.
“Let’s measure it, Mom. If your blood pressure has jumped, we’ll call an ambulance. If not, stop this theater.”
Lidia Borisovna looked at the device with hatred. Then at her unyielding son. Realizing that the performance had failed, she abruptly stood up.
“My foot will never step into this house again!” she hissed, heading toward the hallway. “Not until you apologize to your mother!”
“Close the door tightly behind you. There’s a draft,” Pavel replied calmly, without moving from his place.
When the door closed behind my mother-in-law and the fussily shuffling Aunt Zina, Pavel sank onto the chair beside me. He covered his face with hands stained with flour and oil.
“Forgive me, Natash,” he said quietly. “I really didn’t notice. I promise, no one in this house will ever say a crooked word to you again. And you know… let’s order pizza. I would be ashamed to give this burned chicken even to the dogs in the yard.”
I looked at my exhausted, worn-out, but finally grown-up husband. I smiled and placed my hand on his shoulder.
“Pizza is an excellent choice, Pasha. And tomorrow we’ll clean the kitchen. Together.”
Since then, Lidia Borisovna praised dishes carefully. And, what was especially pleasant, she first clarified exactly whose hands she was about to call golden.