My husband brought his relatives to our country house “for a barbecue” and told me to buy all the food. The party was over before the grill was even lit.
“Five kilos of premium beef!” my husband Pasha announced cheerfully.
He was hurriedly zipping up his windbreaker in the hallway.
“Mom said to get the very best meat for the barbecue. She invited Aunt Raya and her husband to our country house, so make sure you buy marbled beef. We’re going all out!”
I froze in the middle of the hallway, holding a cup of morning cocoa.
The chief analyst inside me, who normally woke up only after the second sip of something strong and hot, snapped to attention immediately. There was a distinct smell of financial fraud in the air.
“Five kilograms of marbled beef?” I repeated in the politely icy tone one usually reserves for phone scammers claiming to be from the bank’s security department.
I carefully set my mug on the cabinet.
“And I suppose your mother also asked me to pick up a couple of kilos of fresh truffles, a snowy owl feather, and a case of vintage nectar collected by virgins on a southern hillside?”
“Well, Edik is buying the drinks,” Pasha replied carelessly, referring to his sister’s husband.
A convenient male ability: hearing only the parts that don’t complicate his worldview.
“And Olya sent you a list of the little things in messenger. Vegetables, cheeses, appetizers. Mom doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of Aunt Raya. They’re coming from the capital, you know. They’re used to a certain level of service. I’m heading to the building supply market for some paneling. We’ll meet at the country house!”
The front door slammed shut with cheerful finality.
I opened my phone.
A message from my sister-in-law Olya filled the screen in one endless scroll. It looked less like a modest shopping list for a family picnic on a small country plot and more like the backstage rider of a spoiled rock band arriving on tour.
“Lenochka, sweetheart, get some blue cheese—but not the cheap kind, Mom can’t stand it! Capers, large pitted olives, fresh trout for my boys because they don’t really eat heavy meat, ripe Hass avocados. And that beef, the marbled premium Black Angus. Mom said no less than five kilos because Edik has a good appetite. And get Edik some non-alcoholic beer, about ten cans, because the other kind makes him swell up. We’ll settle the money later. We’re family, after all!”
I read the last sentence twice.
Family debt has an amazing quality: it is always declared to be everyone’s responsibility, while the benefits somehow remain strictly individual.
Historically, the phrase “we’ll settle up later” when used by my husband’s relatives meant a charitable donation to the bottomless fund of their stomachs.
The sacred tradition of that family was simple: everyone relaxed, laughed loudly, ate with enormous appetites, and at the end you were ceremonially appointed the event’s general sponsor.
I quickly calculated the cost of Olya’s “little list” in my head.
The total was comparable to the annual budget of a small rural district.
Five kilograms of premium beef, plus trout, imported cheeses, and expensive drinks—it would cost about half my advance salary payment.
I threw on a coat, grabbed the car keys, and headed to the supermarket.
I am a grown, educated woman. I work with numbers. I can plan a budget six months in advance. And I genuinely could not understand why I was expected to finance someone else’s metropolitan pretensions with my salary card.
Cheerful music played throughout the supermarket, encouraging customers to part with their savings lightly and effortlessly.
I confidently pushed my cart past the gleaming dark-wood meat displays, where beautiful steaks with elegant marbling lay against black backgrounds.
Their price tags looked like telephone numbers.
For Pasha and me, I chose two kilograms of excellent fresh pork neck with a neat layer of fat running through it.
Into the cart went ripe tomatoes, crisp bumpy cucumbers, a huge bunch of fragrant cilantro, red Yalta onions, and several sheets of freshly baked lavash.
This was our honest, delicious, understandable dinner—paid for by us.
Then I parked that cart near the checkout area and picked up a second, empty basket.
It was time to assemble the grocery selection for our dear guests—“dear” in every possible sense of the word.
Edik, my sister-in-law’s husband, had always fascinated me from an anthropological perspective.
He possessed the grace and culinary discrimination of a bottom-feeding catfish.
At the country house, he usually settled quietly into the depths of a plastic lounge chair beneath the apple tree and methodically sucked in everything edible that passed within reach, barely blinking.
He made absolutely no distinction between expensive ham and the cheapest third-rate boiled sausage.
For him, the only important criterion was quantity.
Aunt Raya was permanently on one aggressive diet or another, all of which miraculously paused the moment a free family banquet began.
And my mother-in-law, Zinaida Markovna, had an almost physical need to have people fussing around her, serving her, and watching her mouth for instructions—preferably while holding a tray.
The taste of the steak didn’t matter to her.
What mattered was the knowledge that her daughter-in-law had rushed out to buy it the moment she snapped her fingers.
In the harsh economy section, where the lighting was dimmer and the price tags screamed in poisonous yellow, I found exactly what I was looking for.
My eyes landed on the bottom shelf.
There, looking abandoned and lonely, stood several bulging plastic buckets bearing the optimistic label:
“Country House Shashlik. Red Price.”
Through the translucent plastic, I could see tough, sinewy chunks of some animal unknown to science, generously drowned in a cloudy marinade the color of a stagnant autumn puddle.
A few limp onion rings floated sadly among this magnificence.
With deep inner satisfaction, I loaded two buckets into my basket.
Then I added a loaf of the cheapest smoked processed sausage cheese—the legendary kind that smelled overwhelmingly of liquid smoke and was hard enough that, during difficult times, you could probably use it to hammer nails into a fence.
Instead of trout for Olya’s boys, I picked up two packages of “Student” sausages, whose ingredients honestly listed soy and mechanically separated poultry.
Instead of the premium beer Edik supposedly could drink without swelling up, I grabbed a crate of discounted pale beer in large plastic bottles.
And as a final touch, I placed a tin of cheap zucchini caviar on top.
Domestic delicacies, so to speak.
If we were going to celebrate, we might as well celebrate properly.
While I was paying for the two orders separately, my phone chimed.
Olya.
“Lena, are you still at the store? Get some cherries too, but only premium southern ones, nice and large. And pomegranate juice, freshly pressed. Money later, like we agreed!”
I smirked, dropped the phone into my handbag, and headed toward the car.
I arrived at the country house first.
The weather was wonderful. The June sun warmed the fresh young greenery.
After unloading the bags into the summer kitchen, I slowly and lovingly marinated our pork neck.
I sliced onions into rings, crushed them with my hands until they released their juice, poured kefir over everything, and generously added freshly ground black pepper and basil.
Then I covered the glass container with its clip-on lid and hid it securely in the farthest, least visible corner of the refrigerator, concealing it behind pots of yesterday’s side dishes.
The cheap plastic buckets of “Country House” shashlik, meanwhile, I ceremoniously placed right in the middle of the kitchen table.
Around them, I arranged the large plastic beer bottles artistically, laid the rock-hard sausage cheese beside them still wrapped in its factory packaging, and added the packages of sausages.
The untouched tin of zucchini caviar completed the composition…
Continuation just below in the first comment.
— Five kilos of premium beef! — my husband Pasha blurted out cheerfully.
He was hurriedly zipping up his windbreaker in the hallway.
— Mom said to buy the very best meat for the barbecue. She invited Aunt Raya and her husband to our country house. So get marbled beef. We’re going all out!
I froze in the middle of the hallway, holding a mug of morning cocoa.
My inner senior financial analyst, who usually woke up only after the second sip of a strong hot drink, snapped to attention immediately. The air suddenly had the unmistakable scent of a financial scam.
— Five kilograms of marbled beef? — I clarified in the politely icy tone normally reserved for asking phone scammers exactly which branch of the security department they were supposedly calling from.
I carefully set my mug on the cabinet.
— And I suppose Mom also asked me to pick up a couple of kilos of fresh truffles, a feather from a snowy owl, and a crate of collectible nectar gathered by virgins on a southern hillside?
— Well, Edik is buying the drinks, — Pasha waved dismissively, referring to his sister’s husband.
A wonderfully convenient male talent: hearing only the parts that don’t complicate one’s view of the world.
— And Olya sent you a list of little things in the messenger. Vegetables, cheeses, appetizers. Mom wants everything to look respectable in front of Aunt Raya. They’re coming from the capital, after all. They’re used to a certain level of service. I’m heading to the construction market for some paneling. See you at the country house!
The front door slammed cheerfully behind him.
I opened my phone.
A message from my sister-in-law Olya glowed on the screen in one long, endless scroll. It looked more like the rider of a spoiled rock band arriving on tour than a modest shopping list for a family picnic on six hundred square meters of land.
“Lenochka, sweetheart, get some blue cheese—but not the cheap kind, Mom can’t stand it!—capers, large pitted olives, fresh trout for my boys because they don’t really eat heavy meat, and ripe Hass avocados. And that beef, of course, the marbled premium Black Angus. Mom said at least five kilos because Edik has a good appetite. And get Edik ten cans of non-alcoholic beer because the other kind makes him swell up. We’ll settle the money later. We’re family!”
I read the last sentence twice.
The fascinating thing about obligations between relatives is that they are always declared to be shared, while the benefits somehow remain strictly personal.
Historically, the phrase “we’ll settle it later,” when used by my husband’s relatives, meant a charitable donation to the Fund for Their Bottomless Stomachs.
Their sacred family tradition consisted of everyone relaxing loudly and happily, eating with enormous appetites, while at the end you were ceremonially appointed the event’s general sponsor.
I quickly calculated the cost of Olya’s “little shopping list” in my head.
The total came out roughly comparable to the annual budget of a small rural municipality.
Five kilograms of premium beef, plus trout, imported cheeses, and expensive drinks—it amounted to half my advance salary payment.
I threw on my coat, grabbed the car keys, and headed to the supermarket.
I am an adult, educated woman. I work with numbers. I can plan a budget six months in advance.
And I genuinely could not understand why I was supposed to finance someone else’s metropolitan pretensions using my salary card.
Cheerful music played inside the store, encouraging shoppers to part with their savings easily and without regret.
I confidently pushed my cart past the gleaming dark-wood displays where beautiful steaks with delicate marbled veins rested against black backgrounds.
Their price tags looked like telephone numbers.
For Pasha and me, I chose two kilograms of excellent fresh pork neck with a neat layer of fat.
Into the cart went ripe tomatoes, crisp bumpy cucumbers, a huge bunch of fragrant cilantro, red Yalta onions, and several sheets of freshly baked lavash.
This was our honest, delicious, straightforward dinner—paid for by us.
Then I parked that cart near the checkout and took a second empty basket.
It was time to assemble the grocery selection for our expensive guests—in every possible sense of the word.
Edik, my sister-in-law’s husband, had always fascinated me from an anthropological standpoint.
He possessed the grace and gastronomic indiscrimination of a bottom-feeding catfish.
At the country house, he would usually settle quietly into the depths of a plastic lounge chair beneath the apple tree and methodically, without blinking, absorb anything edible that happened to pass within reach.
He made absolutely no distinction between expensive ham and third-rate boiled sausage.
Volume was his primary criterion.
Aunt Raya, meanwhile, was perpetually on aggressive diets that miraculously suspended themselves exactly during free family banquets.
And my mother-in-law, Zinaida Markovna, had a physical need for people to fuss around her, serve her, and wait attentively on her—preferably while carrying a tray.
For her, the flavor of the steak wasn’t important.
What mattered was the fact that her daughter-in-law had rushed out to buy it at the first snap of her fingers.
In the harsh economy section, where the lighting was dimmer and the price tags screamed in poisonous yellow, I found exactly what I was looking for.
My gaze fell to the bottom shelf.
There sat several lonely, bulging plastic buckets bearing the life-affirming label:
“Country-Style Barbecue Meat. Budget Price.”
Through the translucent plastic, I could see tough, sinewy chunks belonging to an animal unknown to modern science, generously submerged in cloudy marinade the color of a stagnant autumn puddle.
A few limp onion rings floated around in this magnificence.
With profound inner satisfaction, I loaded two buckets into my basket.
Then I added a loaf of the cheapest smoked processed sausage cheese—the legendary kind that smelled of liquid smoke and was sturdy enough, in difficult times, to hammer nails into a fence.
Instead of trout for Olya’s boys, I picked up two packs of “Student” sausages, whose ingredient list honestly admitted to containing soy and mechanically separated poultry.
Instead of Edik’s supposedly elite beer that allegedly didn’t make him swell up, I grabbed a promotional case of cheap pale beer in plastic bottles.
And as a finishing touch, I placed a tin of bargain zucchini spread on top.
Domestic delicacies, so to speak.
If we were going all out, we were going all out.
While I was paying for the two separate purchases at checkout, my phone chimed.
Olya.
“Lena, are you still at the store? Get some sweet cherries too, but only the large premium southern ones. And pomegranate juice, freshly pressed. Money later, like we agreed!”
I smirked, tossed the phone into my handbag, and headed to the car.
I arrived at the country house first.
The weather was wonderful, with the June sun warming the fresh young greenery.
After unloading the bags into the summer kitchen, I slowly and lovingly marinated our pork neck.
I sliced onions into rings, crushed them with my hands until they released their juice, poured kefir over everything, and generously added freshly ground black pepper and basil.
I sealed the glass container with its clip-on lid and hid it securely in the farthest, least visible corner of the refrigerator, barricading it behind pots containing yesterday’s side dishes.
The cheap plastic buckets of “Country-Style” barbecue meat I ceremoniously placed right in the center of the kitchen table.
Around them, I artfully arranged the plastic beer bottles, placed the brick of rock-hard sausage cheese directly in its factory packaging, and positioned the packs of sausages nearby.
The untouched tin of zucchini spread completed the composition.
The still life looked as though we were preparing for the annual convention of the Extreme Economy Enthusiasts Club.
An hour and a half later, furious honking erupted beyond the gate.
The long-awaited delegation poured onto the property.
At the front, breaking through the ice of everyone else’s peace and quiet, marched Zinaida Markovna.
She was dressed for the occasion: pale suit, carefully styled hair, and the expression of someone arriving to inspect a military parade in the central square.
Behind her minced Aunt Raya, wearing sunglasses that covered half her face and the arrogant expression of an aristocrat who had been accidentally dropped into a potato field due to a navigation error.
Next came my sister-in-law Olya, loudly scolding her spoiled sons because they had gotten dust on their expensive sneakers.
Edik brought up the rear of this magnificent procession.
Even as he walked, his bulging eyes were scanning the property, clearly searching for the barbecue grill, the meat, and the first serving of drinks.
Pasha arrived shortly afterward in his own car, smiled at me, waved, and disappeared behind the house to unload heavy packs of wooden paneling.
— Lenochka!
Zinaida Markovna swooped into the summer kitchen with the determination of a starving seagull spotting an unattended greasy pastry on the promenade.
She confidently pulled out a chair.
— We’ve been stuck in traffic forever! We’re starving like wolves! Did you buy everything the way I told you? Where’s our marbled beef? Raya has been looking forward to it so much. She’s used to proper service and quality food in the capital!
Without looking, my mother-in-law reached possessively for the item standing in the middle of the table.
Her perfectly manicured fingers closed around the lid of the plastic bucket.
She suddenly stopped.
— What is this? — her voice cracked treacherously when she read the crookedly attached label featuring a sad cartoon pig.
She turned the bucket around in her hands.
— What does “Country-Style” mean? Where’s the premium Angus? Where are the steaks?
— This, Zinaida Markovna, is the harsh truth of life served in vinegar marinade, — I replied with a broad and friendly smile.
I took a heavy kitchen knife from the drawer and began methodically chopping the pale sausages on a wooden cutting board before transferring them to a disposable cardboard plate.
— I told you in plain language to buy the best meat! — my mother-in-law protested.
Behind her, Aunt Raya pressed her hands dramatically to her chest, demonstrating the highest possible degree of wounded dignity.
— Olya sent you a detailed list! — my sister-in-law joined in as she stormed into the kitchen. — I checked every single item personally! Where’s the trout? Where are the cheeses, Lena?!
— Olya did send me a list, — I nodded agreeably, turning my attention to the sausage cheese.
The knife struggled to penetrate its resilient flesh.
I carefully put the utensil down.
— And I did the math. Olya’s list, including the premium southern cherries and freshly pressed pomegranate juice, came to exactly seventeen thousand rubles. So I bought exactly as much food as you transferred to my bank card yesterday.
A heavy, dense silence descended upon the kitchen.
Within that silence, we could clearly hear Edik outside unsuccessfully trying to pry the plastic cap off his bottle against the corner of our brand-new wooden gazebo.
— We didn’t transfer you anything! — Olya exclaimed with genuine, almost childlike indignation.
She blinked in confusion, clearly unable to understand how the system had suffered such a catastrophic malfunction.
— We clearly said we’d settle up later! We’re family!
— And now we have settled up. In advance, — I replied, still smiling pleasantly.
I leaned against the counter.
— While sitting in traffic, I took the opportunity to calculate all your previous “we’ll settle up later” arrangements over the past two years. Your new washing machine, which we “temporarily” paid for when Edik was having work problems. Your anniversary dinner at the restaurant, Olya, where I was ceremonially given the privilege of paying the entire bar bill.
I folded my arms across my chest.
— It turns out you owe me roughly the equivalent of three marbled-beef banquets like this one. So today’s celebration is on the house, but strictly within the limits of the historical credit already extended. Our family deeply honors the tradition of selfless assistance—especially when I am expected to provide the assistance and everyone else gets to enjoy it selflessly.
— How dare you?! — Zinaida Markovna gasped, rapidly turning crimson with outrage.
She shook her perfectly manicured fist in the air.
— You’re humiliating me in front of my own sister! In front of guests from the capital! We came here to relax and breathe fresh air! This is our country house too! My son built it with his own hands! We have rights here!
— Your son built it, while the two enormous consumer loans for this land and that very paneling are being deducted from my salary card, — I interrupted calmly, without raising my voice even slightly.
I picked up the bucket of cloudy marinade like a lecturer presenting a visual aid.
— And since we happen to have a moment for educational discussion, allow me to clarify one culinary detail. You see, marbled beef is a delicate, refined product. It requires respect. You cook it for about a minute on each side.
I looked meaningfully out the window.
— And our dear Edik, as we all know perfectly well, cooks every piece of meat until it becomes a ceremonial lump of charcoal suitable for drawing hopscotch squares on the pavement. Wasting premium beef on Edik’s barbecue experiments would be a culinary crime.
I set the bucket back on the table with a soft thud.
— These pieces, on the other hand, couldn’t be ruined even by a direct meteor strike. It is the absolute, perfect union of form and content.
— You… you are unbelievably calculating! — Olya squealed. — We came here with open hearts, with all our love, and you’re counting pennies!
— I’m not counting pennies, Olya. I’m counting entitlement.
My voice became quieter, but that only gave it the metallic edge that made my sister-in-law instinctively retreat toward the doorway.
I looked directly into her eyes.
— Nobody in this world is preventing you from eating premium meat with fresh trout and imported delicacies on the side. You simply have to buy all that magnificence with your own money. And when you arrive at someone else’s home empty-handed with a long list of demands, you eat exactly what you’re given.
At that moment, the door creaked and Pasha entered the kitchen.
He was wiping construction dust from his hands with a damp cloth, squinting happily from the sunlight and clearly anticipating a wonderful family celebration.
— Hey, why is everyone shouting? I can hear you all the way outside, — he asked in genuine surprise, looking from his crimson-faced mother to his furious sister and back again. — Is the meat ready? I lit the grill! The coals are perfect.
— Your wife is humiliating us! — Zinaida Markovna cried out theatrically, throwing herself toward her son as though he were her final defensive line.
She grabbed his sleeve.
— She bought some kind of garbage fit for stray dogs! She humiliated me in front of Rayechka! We asked for normal meat, like civilized people, so we could have a proper celebration, and she gives us tendons soaked in vinegar! Tell her, Pasha! Put your wife in her place for once! Who is the master of this house?!
Pasha looked uncertainly at the cloudy buckets.
Then at the rock-hard sausage cheese.
Then at me.
For a second, I saw that old, ingrained fear of his mother’s anger flicker in his eyes—the very fear Zinaida Markovna had always relied upon.
It was her signature technique, polished over years: apply guilt, increase the intensity of the scandal, and keep pushing until the other person broke down and did whatever she wanted simply to make her stop.
I said nothing.
I stood leaning against the counter and had no intention of justifying myself with a single word.
This was our moment of truth.
His adulthood exam.
If he lowered his eyes now and told me to apologize to smooth things over, if he asked me to tolerate it for his mother’s sake, I would simply collect my handbag, get into my car, and drive back to the city.
Pasha slowly walked over to the table.
He picked up the long receipt from the economy supermarket that I had deliberately left in the most visible possible place.
He scanned the items.
“Country-Style Barbecue Meat — 2. Sausage Cheese — 1. Pale Beer — 10.”
Then my husband looked out through the open window.
There was Edik, who had finally defeated the stubborn bottle cap and was noisily drinking beer straight from the neck while leaning over my freshly planted flower bed filled with carefully selected petunias.
Edik blinked with the sluggishness of a sleepy carp, completely unable to understand why meat still wasn’t sizzling on the grill.
Meanwhile, Olya’s boys were loudly snapping dry branches from the old plum tree beside the fence.
— Mom, — my husband said unexpectedly.
His voice was firm, low, and very calm.
He carefully pulled his sleeve free from her fingers.
— Lena spent her own money on that bucket. From her own salary. If you wanted to treat Aunt Raya to ten thousand rubles’ worth of expensive meat, why didn’t you buy it yourself on the way here? You came by car. There are plenty of premium supermarkets along the highway.
— But we’re family! — Zinaida Markovna started her favorite worn-out refrain again, although obvious uncertainty had already crept into her voice.
She had not expected resistance like this.
— You have cars, a country house, good salaries! You’re young! Are you really too stingy to set a proper table for your own mother and aunt?
— We’re not stingy, — Pasha cut her off sharply, taking a step backward. — But when you invite prestigious guests because you want to impress them, you pay for the banquet yourself. Lena did absolutely the right thing. If you don’t like barbecue meat from a bucket, get in the car and drive to the nearest country restaurant. I’m not going to beg anyone to stay, and I’m not apologizing.
My mother-in-law recoiled as though her son had slapped her across the face with a wet towel.
Olya blinked in stunned disbelief, completely thrown off balance.
They had never imagined such a turn of events, even in their worst nightmares.
In their ideal version of reality, Pasha was always supposed to act as a buffer, persuade me to swallow my resentment, and convince me to spend money for the sake of keeping peace with his relatives.
And then the capital city’s strategic reserve entered the battle.
— Zinaida! — Aunt Raya suddenly shrieked.
She had been standing in the shade near the refrigerator the entire time without removing her dark sunglasses.
She stepped forward, her aristocratic face twisting with genuine anger.
— I don’t understand something here! You called me all last week promising me a luxurious countryside vacation! You were cooing into the phone: “Rayechka, come visit! Beef, expensive cheeses, my son will treat us like royalty, they wait on me hand and foot!”
Aunt Raya indignantly adjusted the strap of her expensive handbag.
— And now it turns out you decided to show off in front of your daughter-in-law at my expense? To pretend you’re some grand lady? And after three hours in traffic, I’m supposed to chew cheap cardboard sausages and listen to your provincial family arguments over five kopecks?!
It was that magnificent, crystal-clear moment when a carefully constructed, shameless plan collapses like a house of cards, burying its creators beneath the wreckage.
— Rayechka, listen, it’s all her fault! — my mother-in-law cried in panic, pointing a trembling manicured finger at me in a desperate attempt to save what little remained of her shattered reputation. — I got a greedy, selfish daughter-in-law! I don’t even have the strength to fight with them anymore!
I realized that this was my cue.
— You mustn’t give up, Zinaida Markovna. You can and should always keep fighting! — I replied with enormous, unconcealed pleasure, returning one of her favorite phrases to her—the same phrase she usually used while demanding that I dig up her vegetable garden every May.
I picked up the tin from the table.
— And a reminder for some people: the way you treat others is the way they’ll treat you. If you want respect and service, start by not treating someone else’s wallet as your own.
I held the tin out toward my sister-in-law.
— By the way, Olya, unfortunately there aren’t any delicacies. They didn’t fit the budget. But here’s zucchini spread. It was on sale. Excellent vintage. Would you like some?
Aunt Raya wrinkled her nose in disgust and gave her sister such a devastating look that Zinaida Markovna visibly shrank and instantly lost all her former grandeur.
— You know what, Zina, — the metropolitan guest said, turning toward the exit. — We’re going home. I never signed up for these family scenes. My blood pressure rises just from looking at that vinegar. Edik! Put down the bottle and start the car! Get the children. We’re leaving!
Edik, who had only just settled comfortably into the lounge chair and closed his eyes in anticipation of nirvana, made a mournful, almost animal-like sound.
Parting with free drinks was almost beyond his strength.
But he didn’t dare argue with the domineering aunt.
She had long promised to include him in her Moscow apartment inheritance, and for that Edik was willing even to skip lunch.
The departure preparations were astonishingly quick and beautifully silent.
Olya, huffing angrily from humiliation and resentment, shoved her protesting sons into Aunt Raya’s crossover while muttering about cruel, heartless people blinded by money.
As Zinaida Markovna passed me on the path toward the gate, she tried to incinerate me with her signature curse-filled stare.
But she encountered my perfectly calm, radiant, friendly smile, stumbled on completely level ground, and hurriedly looked away with an irritated jerk of her shoulder.
The car coughed out a cloud of bluish exhaust, turned around on the grass, crushing a couple of dandelion bushes, and disappeared around the bend, carrying the entire traveling circus away with it.
Blessed, indestructible June peace settled over the property.
Only the birds chirped happily in the branches of the young apple tree, apparently delighted that no sausage wrappers or empty cups would be flying at them today.
Pasha exhaled deeply, with visible, almost physical relief.
He came up behind me, rested his chin on the top of my head, and wrapped his arms tightly around my shoulders.
— You were pretty harsh with them today, — he said quietly.
There wasn’t a gram of reproach in his voice.
Not even a trace of regret.
If anything, there was a hidden, almost boyish admiration.
— But I was fair, — I replied, pressing my cheek against his warm shoulder and feeling the tension of the past few hours finally drain away. — Are you going to keep the grill going? The coals will burn out.
— And what exactly are we going to cook? — my husband smirked, nodding toward the lonely plastic buckets abandoned on the table. — That vinegar nightmare? I’m hungry after unloading all that paneling, but not that hungry. I’ll pass.
I narrowed my eyes mischievously, slipped out of his embrace, and walked over to the refrigerator.
I reached into the farthest corner behind the pots of yesterday’s leftovers and ceremoniously pulled out the heavy glass container.
The clips snapped loudly as I opened the lid.
Instantly, the summer kitchen filled with the rich, intoxicating aroma of fresh meat delicately marinated in homemade kefir with juicy onions, basil, and sharp black pepper.
Pasha swallowed.
— Pork neck? — he whispered with almost religious reverence as he stared at the perfect pieces of meat.
— The best at the entire farmers’ market, — I confirmed. — Exclusive. Only for people who understand the difference between real family, where people take care of one another, and a free twenty-four-hour restaurant on demand. Start threading it onto the skewers.
That evening, the two of us sat alone on the veranda wrapped in blankets.
The meat had turned out absolutely perfect—incredibly tender, dripping with hot clear juices, with exactly the right slightly sweet, crisp crust.
Pasha poured each of us a glass of a rich ruby-colored drink that I had purchased myself, without orders, shopping lists, or anyone’s approval.
Somewhere far away along the dusty evening highway, a car was carrying a collection of offended, angry, and extremely hungry relatives back toward the stuffy city—far away from our country house, our money, and our peaceful life.
On the table in front of us, beside the platter of golden, steaming barbecue meat, stood the lonely open tin of cheap zucchini spread and the untouched brick of sausage cheese.
— You know, — Pasha smiled as he looked into the fire and raised his glass, — barbecue without them turned out a thousand times more delicious.
— I completely agree, — I said, gently clinking my glass against his. — And notice something else: even our domestic delicacies survived intact. Tomorrow I’ll make hot sandwiches with the sausage cheese, and we’ll have the zucchini spread with lunch. Nothing goes to waste in this house.
I placed another piece of barbecue meat onto my plate—golden, juicy, tender, infused with onion, basil, and smoke, with a delicate crisp crust.
— The meat really did turn out excellent, — Pasha admitted.
— Of course it did, — I smiled. — I have a great marinade recipe.
Unlike certain relatives, it has never let me down.
