“Set the Table, Now!” My Husband Ordered in Front of His Friends. I Silently Handed Him an Apron
“Set the table, now!” my husband ordered in front of his friends. I silently handed him an apron.
It was pink. Covered in large white polka dots. With a frivolous ruffle running along the hem that made anyone wearing it look like an overfed marshmallow.
Every sound in the entryway instantly disappeared.
My husband’s friends, Pasha and Kolya, froze where they stood. Kolya was caught halfway through trying to remove a sneaker with a jammed shoelace, leaving the front door slightly ajar.
Dima stared at the apron as though I had handed him a filthy floor rag.
His face, which only a second earlier had radiated the stern authority of the master of the house, rapidly turned the color of boiled beetroot.
As usual, it had all begun with my husband’s firm conviction that the stamp in our passports had transformed me into his personal assistant in all domestic matters.
July had been scorching that year, melting the city asphalt along with the last remnants of conscience possessed by certain relatives.
That morning, nothing had suggested that a major conflict was coming. I had planned to spend the day quietly taking care of things around the apartment, but then my sister-in-law appeared.
Vika, Dima’s younger sister, possessed an extraordinary talent: she appeared only when she needed something, while presenting her request as though she were doing everyone else a tremendous favor.
“Nadya, save me!” she chirped into the phone without even saying hello. “Tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday!”
“I was thinking—why bother with restaurants? Family should celebrate together! We’ll all gather at your place.
“All you have to do is make enough cabbage rolls for forty people, prepare a couple of salads, and take care of a few little extras—aspic, cold cuts, and a hot main course. That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, should it?”
Family duty is a remarkable currency: one person always takes out the loan, while the entire family somehow expects someone else to repay it with interest.
“Vika,” I replied calmly, watching Dima struggle unsuccessfully to open a jar in the kitchen, “forty people will fit into our two-room apartment only if we make them stand in the bathtub. And no, I’m not cooking an entire birthday feast.”
“Oh, you always make everything so complicated!” my sister-in-law protested. “Diiima! Talk to your wife!”
Feeling that he had been summoned to defend the established order, Dima snatched the phone from me and announced loudly:
“Don’t worry, sis! We’ll arrange everything. My wife will do it properly. I’ll make sure of it.”
He put the phone on the table and looked at me like the director of a major industrial plant, despite the fact that he was sitting on the sofa.
“Are you actually serious?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“What’s the big deal?” my husband replied, genuinely offended. “She’s my family! You should be more understanding.”
And there it was—the second great paradox of our family. To them, “being understanding” meant silently and freely fulfilling all their demands. Refuse, and you automatically became a selfish person who was disturbing the peace.
“Excellent,” I said with a nod. “Since she’s your family, you can make the cabbage rolls. The ground meat is in the freezer, and the young cabbage is in the vegetable drawer. Good luck.”
My husband waved his hand dismissively and returned his attention to his phone.
As I learned later, the great strategist had secretly messaged his sister:
“Don’t listen to Nadya. She’s just in a bad mood this morning. Come by tonight with containers. I’ll make her cook everything.”
Immediately afterward, he took a small, expensive jar from a shopping bag. Its label read: “Truffle Gourmet Condiment.”
Placing it on the kitchen counter, Dima sternly wagged a finger at me.
“Don’t touch this! It’s something special. Pasha and Kolya are coming over tonight, and I’m going to add it to the meat. They need to see that we aren’t a bunch of uncultured peasants.”
Before long, the doorbell rang. My aunt Zina had arrived, having promised to help me clean.
Aunt Zina was a formidable woman. With a single look, she could stop not only a street hooligan but also an unruly neighbor who had forgotten how to behave.
She glanced at the sulking Dima, who quickly retreated into the living room, and immediately understood that something was wrong.
I briefly explained what had happened that morning.
Aunt Zina snorted as she skillfully chopped fresh herbs for the soup while simultaneously clearing the countertops.
“You know, Nadya, there’s an ancient custom called a potlatch,” she began, launching into one of her unexpected stories while sweeping several small jars onto an upper shelf to make room.
“Chiefs hold enormous celebrations to demonstrate their greatness and publicly give away their possessions. Our apartment chief has decided to go one step further: instead of giving away his own possessions, he gives away your time and labor. It’s a very profitable way to earn a reputation for generosity!”
By six in the evening, a rich solyanka was bubbling on the stove, filling the kitchen with the scent of smoked meat and lemon.
Juicy meat patties were finishing in the oven, while cabbage-filled pastries made by Aunt Zina already adorned the table.
A short ring of the doorbell announced the arrival of our guests. Dima, who until then had been lazily scrolling through his news feed, was instantly transformed.
He straightened his shoulders and headed toward the entryway with the important air of an overfed pigeon convinced that it had personally paved the entire square where it was now pecking at free sunflower seeds.
“Hey, guys! Come in and take off your shoes!” he boomed in an artificially deep voice. “We’re about to feed you.”
And then Dima got carried away.
Eager to show his friends who was in charge of the household, he turned toward the kitchen and shouted the very words that started it all:
“Wife! Set the table, now! And hurry up with the silverware—the guests are waiting!”
Pasha remained frozen with his hand extended. Kolya abandoned his battle with the shoelace and stared at the master of the house.
I emerged from the kitchen without hurrying. I held a towel in one hand and that same pink apron in the other.
Walking up to my husband, I offered him the culinary accessory with the sweetest possible smile.
“‘Now’ is a word you should save for other situations, darling,” I said affectionately. “And the table isn’t going to set itself. Your guests, your rules. Here you are. The color suits you.”
I pushed the apron into his hands.
Dima stared at me in complete confusion. His plan to demonstrate his authority was collapsing before his eyes.
“Nadya, what are you doing?” he asked quietly, glancing at his friends, who were struggling desperately not to laugh. “Is this a joke? Go set the table!”
“No jokes,” I replied with a shrug. “You promised your sister this morning that you would organize everything yourself. So I assumed you had decided to begin practicing tonight.”
I turned to go back into the kitchen when the apartment door, which Kolya had left ajar, was suddenly pushed open and my mother-in-law strode inside.
Irina Nikolayevna was a woman of the old school.
She had raised Dima alone and, according to her own admission, had spoiled him far too much. For the past couple of years, however, she had been actively attempting to correct her mistake by knocking the foolishness out of her son.
My mother-in-law surveyed the scene: the guests pressed awkwardly against the wall, me standing there with an unruffled expression, and her son nervously crumpling the pink hem of the apron in his hands.
“I don’t understand,” her stern voice rang through the entryway. “Is this some sort of amateur theater rehearsal? Dmitry, why are you holding that piece of fabric like a flag?”
“Mom?” Dima exclaimed, completely losing what remained of his deep voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I was passing by and thought I’d bring you some fresh dill from the garden. The door was open,” Irina Nikolayevna said as she entered the apartment. “And now I see you’re putting on a performance.”
She turned toward me.
“Nadya, what’s going on?”
“Well,” I sighed, “Dmitry Alexandrovich decided to demonstrate to his friends what a mighty ruler of pots and pans he is. He ordered me to set the table immediately. I delegated the responsibility.”
Irina Nikolayevna slowly turned her gaze toward her son. Dima tried to hide the apron, but it was too late.
One step. Then another.
A sharp smack echoed through the entryway.
My mother-in-law delivered a classic, full-strength slap to the back of her thirty-year-old son’s head.
“Ow! Mom, what was that for?” Dima howled, clutching the back of his head.
“For exactly what you think!” Irina Nikolayevna declared loudly. “What are you, some kind of sultan, ordering female slaves around?”
“Your wife has spent the entire Saturday standing over the stove, and instead of warning her about your guests and helping her, you’re standing here showing off!”
Watching him stumble through his frantic excuses, I thought that at that moment my husband most closely resembled an insolent ferret that had accidentally discovered someone else’s hidden food stash and immediately imagined itself the master of the universe.
Pasha was the first to lose control. He snorted and covered his mouth with his hand, but a laugh escaped anyway. Kolya also began shaking with silent laughter.
“Excuse us, Irina Nikolayevna,” Kolya managed through his laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. “We honestly had no idea Dima hadn’t warned Nadya. He told us there was going to be a formal dinner in our honor.”
“The only formal dinner he has is inside his imagination, and it consists entirely of pasta,” my mother-in-law replied. “He married a wonderful woman and behaves like a feudal lord.”
Embarrassed and angry, Dima attempted to regain the upper hand.
“Mom, you’re humiliating me in front of the guys! Nadya and I will work this out ourselves! I’m the master of my own house!”
“The master,” Kolya repeated with a nod, having finally calmed down as he put his sneaker back on. “As an ancient wise man once said: he who knows moderation will not be disgraced. And he who doesn’t will end up standing in front of his mother wearing a pink apron.”
“No offense, Dima, but this isn’t how things are done. We should probably go.”
“Where are you going?” Dima asked in panic, realizing that his authority was falling lower by the second. “We’re about to eat! Everything’s fine!”
“No, thanks,” Pasha said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll go to that little seafood restaurant on the corner. The food is excellent, and most importantly, the waiters work for a salary instead of being forced into it. As for you, brother, you need to wash the dishes. Off you go.”
His friends left, carefully closing the door behind them. The entryway became unusually quiet.
“Well, Chief,” Irina Nikolayevna said with a snort. “Are you finished giving orders?”
But the story did not end there.
The elevator stopped on our floor, and someone began ringing the doorbell insistently. Vika appeared on the doorstep.
My sister-in-law barged into the apartment, rattling a collection of empty plastic containers. She had about ten large ones in her hands.
“Oh, Mom, you’re here too!” she exclaimed happily, failing to notice the storm clouds gathering around her. “Perfect! Nadya, where are my cabbage rolls? Dima messaged me and said everything was still happening. I came to collect everything because I have an appointment at the beauty salon tomorrow morning to get my nails done. I won’t have time then.”
I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms.
“Vika, I told you this morning that I wasn’t preparing a banquet.”
My sister-in-law fluttered her eyelashes, pretending to be surprised.
“What do you mean, you aren’t? Dima promised! Dima, you wrote to me! Tell her!”
Irina Nikolayevna slowly turned her head toward her daughter.
“Viktoria,” my mother-in-law said quietly, “are you telling me that you came here with empty containers expecting your sister-in-law to spend her day off cooking enough food for forty people at her own expense?”
Sensing danger, Vika began stepping backward.
“What’s wrong with that? Family members are supposed to help one another!”
“Help?” my mother-in-law repeated sweetly. “Wonderful. Here is what’s going to happen, birthday girl.”
“Since family members are supposed to help one another, you are going to the store right now. You will buy the ingredients with your own money, return here, and spend the entire night making your cabbage rolls with your brother. He already has an apron. Nadya is going to rest.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Vika protested. “I have a manicure appointment! And anyway, I don’t know how to make them!”
“You’ll learn!” Irina Nikolayevna said loudly. “Have the two of you lost every trace of shame? One invites guests as though this were a restaurant without consulting his wife. The other organizes banquets at someone else’s expense! I raised two parasites!”
Vika puffed out her lips in offense, realizing that the free feast had been canceled and that a major scandal was waiting for her instead.
“Fine!” she shouted, throwing one of the containers onto the entryway cabinet. “I’ll manage without your help! You’re all so selfish!”
She spun around and stormed onto the landing, slamming the door loudly behind her.
Irina Nikolayevna sighed heavily and rubbed her temples.
“Nadya, my dear girl, please forgive me for raising those two fools. It’s my own fault. I always handed everything to them on a plate.”
“It’s all right, Irina Nikolayevna,” I said with a smile. “Growing up is always painful. Let’s go into the kitchen instead. Aunt Zina baked such wonderful pastries that you’ll be licking your fingers.”
The three of us—my mother-in-law, Aunt Zina, who had emerged after hearing the commotion, and I—marched into the kitchen. Realizing that he had been left completely alone, Dima trudged after us.
We sat down at the table. Aunt Zina poured everyone a bowl of rich solyanka.
Dima swallowed hungrily and perched on the edge of a stool.
His attempt to play the feudal lord had failed spectacularly. His friends had left, his sister had fled, and his mother was looking at him as though she were considering whether she could return him under warranty.
Wanting to preserve at least some dignity and a trace of his former grandeur, he reached toward the upper cabinet shelf where Aunt Zina had placed all the little items that had been cluttering the counters that morning.
“All right,” he muttered, trying to restore some authority to his voice. “We’ll eat something simple. But now I’m going to bring out something special. I’ve been saving it.”
With the solemnity of a priest unveiling an ancient relic, he took down his little jar.
“A gourmet condiment,” he announced significantly as he opened the lid. “It cost a considerable amount of money. It’s only for true connoisseurs. Now we’ll add it to the meat…”
He stopped in the middle of the sentence and stared inside.
The jar was empty, apart from a thin brown residue coating its sides. Dima blinked in alarm.
“Where is it?” he asked hoarsely. “Where is my premium condiment? I left it on the counter this morning!”
Aunt Zina, who was peacefully chewing a cucumber, gave an indifferent shrug.
“Oh, that brown paste in the tiny jar?” she asked casually. “I found it on the counter this morning. I thought it was something that had gone bad. It had a strange smell.”
“I didn’t want to waste it, though. So I used it to grease the hinges on the oven door because they were squeaking. Then I put the empty jar on the top shelf. It worked perfectly, actually. A fine, high-quality product. The door doesn’t squeak anymore.”
For one second, absolute silence reigned over the kitchen.
Then Irina Nikolayevna began to laugh. Quietly at first, then louder and louder, wiping tears from her eyes with a napkin. I couldn’t hold back either and burst out laughing.
Dima sat there holding the empty jar, comprehending the full extent of his downfall.
There were no admiring friends, no obedient wife, and no free banquet for his sister.
There was only a pink apron lying across his knees and an oven generously lubricated with his premium gourmet condiment.
The law of the boomerang has never been repealed. Sometimes it returns not in the form of some great punishment, but as an empty jar and loud laughter around the kitchen table.
“Well, then, true gourmet,” my mother-in-law managed through her laughter, pulling a plate of pastries closer to herself. “Eat your solyanka. And don’t forget to clean the oven afterward.”
“Now.”