“Olya, do we need to bring our own containers or will they be provided there?”
I stopped grating cheese and pressed my phone tighter to my ear.
“What containers, Larisa?”
“For food, of course. Mom said your birthday bash will be grand, with a restaurant-style menu and big portions. No sense letting leftovers go to waste.”
The kitchen suddenly grew suspiciously quiet. Even the sauce on the stove seemed to stop simmering just to listen.
“And who invited you?”
“What do you mean, who? Mom. She told us you wanted all the relatives gathered. Vityalik and I will come right after work.”
My birthday party was supposed to be held at a cooking studio. I invited ten people: my parents, both in-laws, and two couples who are close friends. We had already bought ingredients for everyone, set up a workstation, and prepared personalized aprons.
Twelve extra relatives with containers were definitely not part of the plan for the evening.
“Larisa, I didn’t invite anyone else. Call your mom and double-check.”
“But she said…”
“Then ask her directly.”
I ended the call and looked at my husband.
Viktor was sitting at the table with his cup of tea, and by the look on my face, he already knew who was once again taking control over our lives.
“My mom?” he asked.
“Your mom has launched her own branch of my birthday. She’s invited twelve people. Larisa is already making space in her containers.”
“Wow, they organized fast.”
“Nothing brings family together like free salmon.”
Viktor pulled out his phone.
“I’ll call her myself.”
Agafya Prokhorovna picked up right away.
“Son, I’m busy choosing a dress. Burgundy or green?”
“Mom, why did you invite people to Olya’s birthday?”
“What people? Relatives! I didn’t just pick up strangers from the train station.”
“Olya didn’t invite them.”
“So what? You only turn fifty once. Ten people isn’t a party, it’s a condo board meeting. I just added a bit of fun.”
“Twelve extra people isn’t a bit.”
“There’s enough space for everyone in a big room. They’ll add another table, bring in more chairs. There’s always plenty of food at restaurants.”
I put the call on speaker.
“Agafya Prokhorovna, this isn’t a restaurant. It’s a cooking class. Each participant has their own portion of ingredients.”
“Then just share it. You can cut a shrimp in half.”
“Please call everyone and cancel the invitations yourself.”
My mother-in-law huffed indignantly.
“But I already promised! What will people think of me?”
“You’re about to find out.”
She hung up the phone.
The next day we met with Ina, the studio administrator. I explained the situation to her.
“We can accommodate an extra group,” she said. “But it’ll have to be separate. They’ll have their own instructor and a different menu. Maybe homemade pasta with chicken and a vegetable salad.”
“And who’s paying for that?”
“Whoever registers for it pays.”
Viktor and I exchanged glances.
“Perfect,” my husband said. “Register the extra group under Agafya Prokhorovna’s name—but only after she pays personally.”
On the day of the party, my mother-in-law was the first to arrive. She wore a burgundy dress with metallic thread and carried a tiny purse that only had room for her phone, lipstick, and her unwavering sense of righteousness.
She counted the place settings on our table.
“Why only ten?”
“Because there are ten guests,” I replied.
“Everyone else will be here soon. Can you ask the lady to add a few more chairs?”
Inna came over to us holding her tablet.
“Agafya Prokhorovna, there’s a special program arranged for your guests. All that’s left is to pick out the menu and pay for twelve seats.”
My mother-in-law blinked in surprise.
“What do you mean, pay?”
“You invited an extra group. One guest costs…”
When she heard the amount, Agafya Prokhorovna clutched her purse.
“That much for chicken and pasta?”
“That covers the food, the rental of the venue, the chef’s work, and the service.”
“Put it on Olga. It’s her birthday.”
“My order’s already paid,” I replied. “You organized the extra banquet.”
My mother-in-law pulled me aside.
“Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the family?”
“No. I suggested yesterday that you could cancel everything.”
“They’re already on their way!”
“Then you should pay.”
Agafya Prokhorovna glanced at the beautifully set table, sighed deeply and took out her card.
The payment terminal beeped.
“I hope at least the portions are decent,” she muttered under her breath.
“You won’t need any containers,” I reassured her. “The guests will eat everything themselves.”
Ten minutes later, the relatives entered the studio. Larisa carried a bag with containers, while her aunt Raisa held a box of chocolates and looked around as if she was here to inspect the restaurant’s hygiene standards.
“Come in, everyone!” my mother-in-law exclaimed joyfully. “Let’s start the celebration!”
Inna handed out aprons to everyone.
“Your work area is on the right. Today you’ll be making homemade pasta with chicken and a vegetable salad.”
Larisa clutched the bag to her chest.
“When do we eat?”
“After we finish cooking.”
“We have to cook it ourselves?”
Raisa slowly turned to her sister.
“Agafya, you said we were invited to a restaurant.”
“This is much more exciting than a restaurant!” my mother-in-law quickly said. “Everyone celebrates like this now. Working together brings people closer.”
“Especially when you find out near the chopping board,” Raisa remarked.
There was no turning back. We put on our aprons, washed our hands, and the chef started 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 what the perfect consistency should look like.”
Agafya Prokhorovna got to work. The dough stuck to her fingers, her rings, and her burgundy dress. She sprinkled on a bit of flour, then a little more, and ended up with a lump that could have served as a doorstop.
“It’s somehow turned out hard,” she admitted.
“Because you added twice as much flour as needed,” the chef replied.
Raisa chuckled in satisfaction.
“Well, at least you didn’t cut a shrimp in half.”
Things on our side went smoothly. We were preparing salmon, laughing, and snapping photos. At the next station, Larisa was running the pasta machine, Vitalik was cutting chicken, and my mother-in-law was trying to wash dough off her bracelet.
Gradually, everyone started to enjoy themselves. The chef was funny, the pasta turned out delicious, and Raisa even asked for the sauce recipe.
Once both groups sat down at the tables, Agafya Prokhorovna tried to reclaim her role as hostess.
“See how brilliantly I planned everything!”
Larisa raised her fork.
“So you decided to bring us here without warning and make us cook dinner.”
“At least it turned out interesting!”
“It’ll get more interesting when you see that I brought you some containers,” Larisa said. “And you’ll be taking them home empty.”
Everyone burst out laughing. Even Viktor joined in.
After dinner, they brought out two cakes. Ours was a big anniversary cake, while the other group received a simple berry pie that was part of their program.
My mother-in-law immediately reached for our cake.
“Give me a bigger slice. After all, I am the husband’s mother.”
“Your slice is right there on your plate,” I said. “If you want berries, you can ask your group for some. After all, you’re their organizer.”
Raisa pushed the plate with the pie toward her sister.
“Eat your own. You paid so much for it, you should savor every single berry.”
At the end of the evening, Larisa gathered the empty containers back into her bag.
“This is my first time coming for ready-to-eat food and leaving with a dough recipe instead.”
“That’s a win, then,” Viktor remarked.
My mother-in-law kept quiet. She seemed to be tallying up expenses and realizing that grand gestures are especially beautiful when someone else is footing the bill.
A few days later, she called me.
“Olya, we were thinking of visiting your dacha on Saturday. Is it okay if we bring Larisa and Vitalik along?”
“That’s fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Should we bring food?”
“Just bring a good mood.”
In the background, I could hear Larisa’s voice:
“And don’t bring any containers! I’m not going anywhere with you and your tubs again!”
Since then, Agafya Prokhorovna has never invited anyone without permission.
Apparently, preparing twelve portions of homemade pasta turned out to be quite the valuable family lesson.