«Olechka, hello. Did you sell your summer house or just evacuate?» My neighbor, Nadezhda Mikhailovna, sounded crisply military over the phone.
«Why do you ask? Pasha and I are just in the city,» I replied, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear as I continued browsing hoses in the hardware store.
«Then congrats on opening a wholesale warehouse branch,» my neighbor snorted. «Your mother-in-law just turned your cellar into such a smooth canning operation, there’s about to be a traffic jam at your gate. Irka keeps hauling out empty boxes from the car trunk, and Zinaida Pavlovna runs the show like a foreman: ‘Careful with the porcini—those are for Gena’s anniversary!'»
I carefully placed the hose back on the shelf. My husband Pasha, who was standing next to the power drills, raised an eyebrow questioningly.
«Pash,» I sighed. «It seems the key you left your mom exclusively to water the cucumbers accidentally opened a portal to Narnia. Or rather, to my cellar. Let’s go.»
The drive to our dacha usually takes half an hour, but we made it in twenty minutes. The gate was thrown wide open. On the veranda, a scene of merchant-style abundance reigned: my favorite lace tablecloth was covered with plates of appetizers, and in the center sat a proudly opened jar of my homemade strawberry jam.
Zinaida Pavlovna sat at the head of the table with such monumental authority, it looked like she’d just signed a decree annexing my garden plots. Pasha’s older brother, Stasik, was carrying a heavy box of pickled tomatoes out of the house. His wife Larisa was efficiently rearranging jars, while the youngest sister Irina was cramming my signature lecho into her bag.
«Oh, the homeowners are back!» Stasik greeted us with feigned enthusiasm, freezing on the porch with the box in hand.
«And hello to you too,» I leaned against the doorframe, folding my arms across my chest. «I see, Zinaida Pavlovna, that watering the cucumbers in the greenhouse required some heavy artillery and a carb load?»
Irina, a beauty salon manager, straightened indignantly, tugging at her fashionable blouse.
«Olya, why the drama?» she rolled her eyes. «Vegetables grow in the ground by themselves—it’s not like a beauty salon where you need brains. Throw in some seeds and wait. I’m taking this lecho for Lyudochka, she works in an office and needs her vitamins. You’ll make more anyway!»
«Irina,» I smiled so sweetly that Pasha took a step back just in case. «If vegetables grew themselves, agronomy wouldn’t be a science. Tomatoes need pruning, tying up, late blight control, and a strict watering schedule. Trust me, it’s a bit more complicated than booking a manicure for a client through messenger.»
«You just hate my daughter because you spent your whole life as a cashier!» my sister-in-law shrieked.
«Other people’s career heights don’t interest me, Ira, but right now you’re clutching my lecho jar like a bald client grasps a free shampoo sample. Put it back.»
Irina gasped with outrage and hurled the jar back in the box. That’s when Larisa jumped in. As a hardware store cashier, she loved to arm herself with numbers and ‘facts.’
«Oh Olya, why are you being so stingy?» Larisa pursed her lips, shielding a three-liter jar of pickles behind her. «You have more than enough of these! Besides, you pour in way too much vinegar—it’s bad for the stomach. We’re taking them for Lyudochka, she’s got gastritis, homemade stuff is better for her, no chemicals. And here you are begrudging your own relatives!»
«Larisa,» I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. «If you cared about anything besides discounts on screws, you’d know that acetic acid in the marinade is a necessary preservative. It suppresses bacteria that cause botulism—a deadly disease. And gastritis is treated with a proper diet, not by stealing other people’s pickles.»
«Selfish!» Larisa’s face flushed with red patches. «You’d strangle your own family over a jar of pickles!»
«I won’t strangle anyone over a jar,» I replied calmly. «But you’ll be putting it back in the cellar faster than if a cashier had just processed your return without a receipt or ID.»
Larisa snorted angrily but finally let go of the jar. Stasik, sensing things were about to get heated, tried to play the peacemaker.
«Girls, come on, stop fighting over food! Pasha, talk to your wife—we’re family! Why ruin our relationship over this?»
But Pasha, who had been quietly watching everything up until now, suddenly stepped forward. His face was completely expressionless.
«Stas, relationships are ruined by people who come into someone else’s house with empty boxes and start raiding the cellar without asking. Bring everything back. Now.»
Zinaida Pavlovna, realizing her authority was slipping, angrily banged her fist on the table, nearly knocking over my jar of jam.
«I am your husband’s mother!» she declared dramatically. «I have the right to treat my brother for his birthday! Besides, mushrooms are a forest resource—they belong to the state, not you personally! By law, nature belongs to everyone!»
«By law, Zinaida Pavlovna,» I said, pulling my phone from my pocket and opening the calculator app, «once forest resources are legally collected, they become private property. That’s Article 221 of the Civil Code. And entering someone else’s storage—now that’s a criminal code issue.»
«Peddler!» my mother-in-law gasped theatrically, clutching her heart. «You turn everything into money, no soul at all! Just petty bourgeois mindset!»
«My spirituality, Zinaida Pavlovna, ends where your kleptomania begins,» I pressed a couple of buttons on the screen, unfazed. «And you’re protesting so loudly right now, it’s like you got caught sneaking out a sausage you didn’t pay for up your sleeve.»
A heavy silence settled, broken only by the buzz of a wasp circling above the unfinished jam.
«Now let’s do some math,» I said, opening my notebook—as any good inventory manager does, I kept records of all supplies. «Seven jars of porcini mushrooms. Ten jars of lecho. Fifteen of pickles. Pureed berries. Add up the cost of products, jars, lids, spices, and electricity, plus my labor at a cleaning company’s hourly rate. And the total is…»
I named the sum. Stasik whistled in surprise.
«Pay up or unload it all,» Pasha said sharply, moving to the table and taking the keys to the cottage from his mother. «And don’t come back here again without me.»
Just then, Zinaida Pavlovna’s phone came to life on the table. The screen lit up: «Brother Gena.» With trembling hands, my mother-in-law turned on the speaker and sobbed:
— Genochka… There won’t be any little mushrooms for the jubilee. Olya didn’t spare us, she threw us out…
A heavy sigh came from the other end of the line. Gennady Pavlovich, a man of the old school, had no illusions left about his sister.
— Zina, did you sneak into their dacha again with your whole crew without asking? he barked so loudly the speaker crackled. I told you plain as day: I don’t want stolen goods on my table! Apologize to Olga this minute and put everything back where it was. Have some shame!
The call ended abruptly. Zinaida Pavlovna sat there, red as a beet, staring at the empty screen.
It took fifteen minutes to unload everything. Stasik and Larisa silently carried the boxes back down to the cellar. Irina pursed her lips and drove off first, not even bothering to say goodbye. Once the last jar was back in its rightful place on the shelf, I walked over to the table.
— For the jam you ate and the sausage you cut from my fridge, that’s 1,200 rubles, Zinaida Pavlovna, I said politely, holding out my hand. You can transfer it by phone if you like.
Without a word, my mother-in-law pulled out her wallet, tossed two crumpled bills onto the table, lifted her chin with dignity, and marched to Stasik’s car.
Pasha and I were finally alone. He put his arm around my shoulders, watching his brother’s car drive away.
— You know, — my husband smiled, — they never did water the cucumbers in the greenhouse.
— That’s alright, — I brushed the crumbs off the tablecloth and pocketed the money. — I’ll do it. At least now there will definitely be fewer weeds on our plot.
