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 menu and huge portions. No point letting the leftovers go to waste.”
The kitchen suddenly became suspiciously quiet. Even the sauce 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 celebration 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 had been prepared, and there was even a personalized apron for every guest.
Twelve relatives carrying food containers were definitely not part of the evening’s program.
“Larisa, I didn’t invite anyone else. Call your mother and ask her about it.”
“But she said…”
“Then ask her.”
I ended the call and looked at my husband.
Victor 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 control of our lives.
“Mom?” he asked.
“Your mother has opened a branch office of my anniversary party. She invited twelve people. Larisa is already preparing containers.”
“They got ready quickly.”
“Free salmon does wonders for strengthening family ties.”
Victor 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 celebration, 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 anyway.”
I switched the phone to speaker.
“Agafya Prokhorovna, it isn’t a restaurant. It’s a cooking master class. A separate portion of ingredients has been purchased for every participant.”
“Then divide them. You can cut a shrimp in half.”
“You are going to call everyone yourself right now and cancel the invitations.”
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.”
Victor and I looked at each other.
“Perfect,” my husband said. “Book the second group under Agafya Prokhorovna’s name. But only after she personally pays for it.”
On the day of the anniversary, my mother-in-law was the first to arrive. She was wearing a burgundy dress with lurex, and in her hand was a tiny handbag that could hold only a phone, lipstick, and her absolute certainty that she was always right.
She counted the place settings at our table.
“Why are there only ten?”
“Because there are ten guests,” I replied.
“The others will be here soon. Ask that girl to add more chairs.”
Inna approached us with 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, chef’s services, and service staff.”
“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.
“Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the family?”
“No. Yesterday I gave you the chance to cancel everything.”
“They’re already on their way!”
“Then pay.”
Agafya Prokhorovna glanced at the beautifully set table, sighed heavily, and took out her card.
The 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 food containers. Her aunt Raisa held a box of chocolates and looked as if 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 workstation is on the right. Today you’ll be making homemade pasta with chicken and a vegetable salad.”
Larisa hugged the bag to her chest.
“When do we 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. “Everyone celebrates like this nowadays. Working together brings people closer.”
“Especially when you only find out about it after you’re standing next to a 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 what the correct consistency should look like.”
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 very hard,” she admitted.
“That’s because you added twice as much flour as you needed,” the chef replied.
Raisa gave a satisfied snort.
“Good thing you weren’t the one cutting the shrimp in half.”
Everything was peaceful on our side. We cooked salmon, laughed, and took photographs. At the neighboring station, Larisa was turning the pasta machine, Vitalik was cutting chicken, and my mother-in-law was trying to scrape 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 what a wonderful idea I came up with!”
Larisa raised her fork.
“You came up with the idea of bringing us here without warning and making us cook our own dinner.”
“But it turned out interesting.”
“It’ll be even more interesting when you see what I brought you,” Larisa said. “The containers. You can take them home empty.”
Everyone laughed. Even Victor.
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 plate,” I said. “And you can ask your group for more berries. You are their organizer, after all.”
Raisa pushed the plate with berry pie toward her sister.
“Eat your own. You paid so much for it that you’re obligated to appreciate every berry.”
At the end of the evening, Larisa packed the empty containers back into the bag.
“This is the first time I came somewhere expecting ready-made food and left with a dough recipe.”
“At least you got something useful out of it,” Victor said.
My mother-in-law remained silent. She was calculating the expenses and clearly realizing that grand gestures look especially impressive when someone else is paying for them.
A few days later, she called me.
“Olya, we were thinking of visiting you at the country house on Saturday. Can we bring Larisa and Vitalik?”
“Yes. Thank you for asking.”
“Should we bring food?”
“Just bring a good mood.”
Larisa’s voice could be heard in the background:
“And don’t bring containers! I’m never going anywhere with you carrying plastic tubs 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.