“My mother-in-law decided to celebrate at someone else’s expense, but Lena set a very special table”
Lena Korytina had always been what she called to herself “the proper daughter-in-law.” The kind who was first to show up for every holiday. Setting the table was nothing to her. Choosing gifts, wrapping them, signing the cards. “From Sasha and me.” Though Sasha, her husband, had about as much to do with those cards as a crucian carp had to do with a bicycle.
And her mother-in-law, Zinaida Markovna—lively as a T-34 tank fresh out of overhaul—had grown used to Lenka doing everything. Organizing everything. Paying for everything.
Because “we’re family.”
Because “you’re such a clever girl, Lenochka.”
At the beginning of October, Zinaida Markovna announced:
“Lenochka, I’ve decided to celebrate my anniversary. Quietly, just with family.”
Lena grew wary. Whenever her mother-in-law said “quietly,” it usually meant something large-scale, expensive, and, naturally, paid for by somebody else.
“How many people?” Lena asked cautiously, stirring the borscht.
“Oh, about twenty, no more. Relatives, neighbors. Maybe Lyuska Kabanova with her husband. And Tamarka from the pharmacy, of course, she always…”
“Twenty,” Lena exhaled inwardly. Translated from Zinaida Markovna’s language, that meant “at least thirty.”
“Are we going to a restaurant?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Oh, goodness, no!” her mother-in-law waved her hands. “What restaurant? Everything there is plastic. Tasteless. Expensive. But you, Lenochka, have golden hands. You cook better than any chef. Isn’t that right, Sash?”
Sasha, sitting with a newspaper, looked up.
“Huh?”
“I’m saying Lena has golden hands!”
“Uh-huh,” Sasha agreed, and buried himself in his crossword again.
Lena stirred the pot in silence.
“So we’re doing it at home?” she clarified.
“Of course at home! It’s cozy. Warm. Real. You don’t mind, do you, Lenochka?”
She did mind. Very much. Because “at home” meant buying the groceries, cooking for three days, setting the table, smiling at the guests, washing a mountain of dishes, and listening to Zinaida Markovna accept compliments:
“Oh, how delicious! Zina, you’re a miracle worker!”
And Zinaida Markovna would modestly reply with a smile:
“Oh, come now, Lena did the work. But the recipe is mine!”
“I don’t mind,” Lena said.
She said it too calmly.
Sasha even looked up from his crossword and glanced at his wife. But he kept quiet. As always.
And Lena took an old notebook out of the drawer—an old one, covered in blue oilcloth—and wrote something down.
Zinaida Markovna didn’t notice. She was already making plans:
“Of course we’ll need five or six salads. Aspic for sure. Fish. Maybe sturgeon? You know how to make it! And the cake, Lenochka, the Napoleon cake you bake.”
Lena nodded. Wrote it down.
And smiled.
A strange sort of smile.
Like someone who knows something very important. And is keeping quiet for now.
Two days later, Zinaida Markovna descended with an inspection. Without calling first, as usual. She had keys—“just in case.”
“Lenochka, I was thinking…” she began, without even taking off her coat. “We absolutely need Mimosa salad. And vinaigrette too. What if someone doesn’t like herring? Write that down.”
Lena nodded. Wrote it down.
“And buy shrimp. Big ones. Tamarka from the pharmacy adores them. Only not frozen—fresh, you understand?”
“I understand,” Lena replied evenly.
“And Sasha will buy the vodka? Or is that on you too?”
“We’ll see.”
“Well, you make sure. Men, honestly. They’ll buy some cheap garbage on sale.” Zinaida Markovna perched on the edge of a chair and took out a cigarette. “Listen, maybe roast some veal too? I saw it on a TV show, it looked so beautiful.”
Lena silently made tea. Set it in front of her mother-in-law. Sat down opposite her. Opened the notebook.
“So, six salads,” she began quietly. “Aspic, fish, veal, shrimp, cake. Right?”
“Yes. And tongue! I forgot—boiled tongue. With horseradish.”
Lena wrote it down. Carefully. In neat handwriting.
Zinaida Markovna took a drag and narrowed her eyes.
“Why are you being so… strange?”
“Me? I’m perfectly normal.”
Her mother-in-law frowned, but said nothing. She finished her tea and left, tossing over her shoulder:
“Make sure everything is first-class, Lenochka. We’ll have guests.”
The next day Lena went to the market. She walked around for a long time, unhurried. Choosing everything, touching it, smelling it. Aunt Klava, a fish seller she knew, winked at her.
“Why so thoughtful, Lenush?”
“My mother-in-law’s anniversary,” Lena explained.
“Oooh. You have my sympathy. Let me guess, it’s all on you again?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hang in there, my friend. We women know how to endure.”
Lena looked at the herring. Fat, silver, beautiful.
“And what if I don’t want to endure?” she asked suddenly.
The fish seller looked at Lena with interest.
“Plotting something, are you?”
“Maybe,” Lena smiled. And bought exactly as much herring as was needed. No more.
She didn’t buy any shrimp at all.
Or veal.
Instead, she bought buckwheat. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions.
That evening, when Sasha came home from work, he was surprised.
“Why does everything look so modest? Aren’t you preparing for the anniversary?”
“I am,” Lena confirmed.
“Where are the delicacies?”
“There will be delicacies.”
Sasha scratched the back of his head. He wanted to ask something else, but his wife turned back to the stove, and he decided not to interfere. Men are like that: if a woman is silent and smiling at the same time, it’s better not to touch anything.
Soon Zinaida Markovna showed up again.
And headed straight for the fridge:
“What’s all this? Where are the groceries?…
Lena Korytina had always been what she called a “proper daughter-in-law.” The kind who was first to show up for every holiday. The kind who could set a feast without breaking a sweat. The kind who picked out gifts, wrapped them, signed the cards: “From Sasha and me.” Even though Sasha, her husband, had about as much to do with those cards as a carp has to do with a bicycle.
And her mother-in-law, Zinaida Markovna—energetic as a T-34 tank fresh out of overhaul—had grown used to Lena taking care of everything. Organizing everything. Paying for everything.
Because “we’re family.”
Because “you’re such a clever girl, Lenochka.”
At the beginning of October, Zinaida Markovna announced:
“Lenochka, I’ve decided to celebrate my anniversary. Modestly, just with family.”
Lena grew wary. When her mother-in-law said “modestly,” it usually meant something large-scale, expensive, and naturally at someone else’s expense.
“How many people?” Lena asked cautiously, stirring the borscht.
“Oh, about twenty, no more. Relatives, neighbors. Maybe Lyuska Kabanova with her husband. And Tamarka from the pharmacy, she always…”
Twenty, Lena exhaled inwardly. In Zinaida Markovna’s language, that meant at least thirty.
“Are we going to a restaurant?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Oh no, no!” her mother-in-law waved her hands. “What restaurant? Everything there is artificial. Tasteless. Expensive. And you, Lenochka, have golden hands. You cook better than any chef. Isn’t that right, Sash?”
Sasha, who was sitting with a newspaper, looked up.
“Huh?”
“I’m saying Lena has golden hands!”
“Sure,” Sasha agreed, and buried himself in his crossword again.
Lena stirred the pot in silence.
“So we’re doing it at home?” she уточнила.
“Of course at home! It’s cozy. Warm. Real. Lenochka, you don’t mind, do you?”
She did mind. Very much. Because “at home” meant buying groceries, cooking for three days, setting the table, smiling at guests, washing a mountain of dishes, and listening while Zinaida Markovna accepted compliments:
“Oh, how delicious! Zina, you’re a miracle worker!”
And Zinaida Markovna, modestly, with a little smile:
“Oh, it’s nothing, Lenochka did the work. But the recipe is mine!”
“I don’t mind,” Lena said.
She said it too calmly.
Sasha even looked up from his crossword and glanced at his wife. But said nothing. As always.
Lena pulled an old notebook with a blue oilcloth cover out of the drawer and wrote something down.
Zinaida Markovna didn’t notice. She was already making plans:
“We’ll need five or six salads, of course. Aspic, definitely. Fish. Maybe sturgeon? You know how to make it! And cake, Lenochka, a Napoleon cake, the way you make it.”
Lena nodded. Wrote it down.
And smiled.
A strange smile.
Like someone who knew something very important and, for the moment, was keeping quiet.
Two days later Zinaida Markovna stormed in for an inspection. Without calling first, naturally. She had keys—“just in case.”
“Lenochka, I was thinking…” she began, without even taking off her coat. “We absolutely need Mimosa salad. And vinaigrette. What if someone doesn’t like herring? Write that down.”
Lena nodded. Wrote it down.
“And buy shrimp. Big ones. Tamarka from the pharmacy loves them. Only not frozen—fresh, you understand?”
“I understand,” Lena answered evenly.
“And Sasha will buy the vodka? Or is that on you too?”
“We’ll see.”
“Well, you’d better. Men, honestly. They’ll buy some garbage on sale.” Zinaida Markovna perched on the edge of a chair and pulled out a cigarette. “Listen, maybe roast veal too? I saw it on a TV show—looked beautiful.”
Lena silently made tea. Put a cup in front of her mother-in-law. Sat down opposite her. Opened the notebook.
“So, six salads,” she began quietly. “Aspic, fish, veal, shrimp, cake. Right?”
“Yes. And tongue! I forgot—boiled tongue. With horseradish.”
Lena wrote it down. Carefully. In neat handwriting.
Zinaida Markovna took a drag and narrowed her eyes.
“Why are you acting so… strange?”
“Me? I’m fine.”
Her mother-in-law frowned, but said nothing. She finished her tea and left, tossing over her shoulder:
“See that everything is first-rate, Lenochka. Guests are coming.”
The next day Lena went to the market. She wandered for a long time, unhurriedly. She examined everything, touched it, smelled it. Aunt Klava, who sold herring and knew her, winked.
“Why so thoughtful, Lenush?”
“My mother-in-law’s anniversary,” Lena explained.
“Oooh. My sympathies. Let me guess—it’s all on you again?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hang in there, friend. We women are patient.”
Lena looked at the herring. Fat, silver, beautiful.
“And what if I don’t want to be patient?” she suddenly asked.
The fish seller looked at her with interest.
“You planning something?”
“Maybe,” Lena smiled. And bought exactly as much herring as she needed. No more.
She didn’t buy shrimp at all.
Or veal.
Instead she bought buckwheat. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions.
That evening, when Sasha came home from work, he looked surprised.
“Why is everything so modest? Aren’t you preparing for the anniversary?”
“I am,” Lena confirmed.
“Where are the delicacies?”
“There will be delicacies.”
Sasha scratched the back of his head. He wanted to ask more, but his wife turned back to the stove, and he decided not to interfere. Men are like that: if a woman is silent and smiling at the same time, it’s better not to touch the situation.
Soon Zinaida Markovna showed up again.
And went straight for the refrigerator.
“What’s this? Where’s the food?”
“In the fridge.”
“I can see it’s in the fridge! I’m asking—where’s the sturgeon? Where are the shrimp?”
“I didn’t buy them.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t buy them?!”
Lena wiped her hands on a towel. Looked at her mother-in-law. Calmly. Very calmly.
“Zinaida Markovna, there will be a table. A good one. Just a special one.”
“What do you mean special?!” her mother-in-law cried. “Are you mocking me? I asked you!”
“You gave me orders,” Lena corrected her quietly.
Zinaida Markovna went pale.
“How dare you?!”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Lena said, setting the kettle on the table. “There will be an anniversary. There will be guests. There will be food. Everything will be there. Just differently.”
“What do you mean, differently?!”
But Lena had already turned toward the window.
And on the kitchen table lay the notebook, open to a page.
Zinaida Markovna read what was written there in small handwriting. Swallowed hard. Turned around and left, slamming the door so hard the windowpanes rattled.
Lena sat down on a stool and thought: So it begins.
And for some reason, she smiled.
Lena set the table. Unhurriedly. A white tablecloth—clean, ironed. Plates—plain, but not chipped. Forks and spoons polished to a shine.
Sasha paced the hallway like a bear before hibernation.
“Len, are you sure there’ll be enough food?”
“Sash,” Lena turned to him, “today you’re either with me, or you go to your mother. Choose.”
He froze. Was silent for a moment. Then nodded.
“With you.”
The first to arrive were the neighbors, the Petrovs. Then the relatives trickled in: Zinaida Markovna’s sister, nieces and nephews, some distant aunts. Lyudka Kabanova showed up with an enormous bouquet and a sly smile, as if to say, let’s see what you’ve cooked up, smart girl.
Tamarka from the pharmacy kept scanning the table, clearly looking for the shrimp.
And Zinaida Markovna sat at the head of the table like a queen on a throne. In a new burgundy dress, with a hairstyle lacquered so stiff you could hammer nails with it.
The guests took their seats. Began chatting. Sasha poured vodka. Lena brought out the salads.
And that was when it started.
On the table were: vinaigrette, herring under a fur coat, pickles, sauerkraut. For the hot dishes—potatoes with mushrooms, buckwheat porridge, braised chicken. Everything simple. But tasty.
But the main thing was that beside each dish stood a small card. Beautiful ones, on thick paper, with gold lettering.
Lyudka Kabanova was the first to grab one.
“What’s this supposed to be?”
She read aloud:
“Vinaigrette—three hours of work. Boiling vegetables, chopping, dressing. Cost of ingredients—450 rubles. Cost of time—priceless.”
Silence fell.
Someone giggled. Someone choked on their vodka.
Tamarka from the pharmacy picked up another card.
“Herring under a fur coat—a classic. Four hours to layer it properly. Love cannot be measured in money, but labor can.”
Zinaida Markovna turned crimson. Truly crimson—from white straight to beetroot red, skipping every shade in between.
“What kind of circus is this?!” she forced through clenched teeth.
Lena stood by the table. Calm. No fuss at all.
“This isn’t a circus, Zinaida Markovna,” she said quietly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. “It’s the truth.”
“What truth?!”
“Yours.” Lena picked up the main card, the large one with bold lettering, and read aloud: “Organizing the celebration—three days of preparation, eight hours of shopping, twelve hours of cooking, four hours of table setting. Personal time of Lena Korytina. Which for thirty years was considered free and endless.”
The guests were silent. Someone stared at their plate. Someone looked out the window. Petrov, the neighbor, suddenly coughed and muttered:
“Well… yes. That’s true.”
Zinaida Markovna stood up.
“How dare you?! In front of guests! At my anniversary!”
“At your anniversary,” Lena nodded calmly. “At my expense. As always.”
“I never forced you! You did it yourself!”
“I stayed silent,” Lena corrected her. “That is not the same thing as wanting to do it.”
Her mother-in-law jerked toward Sasha.
“Sasha! Do you hear what your wife is saying?!”
Lyudka Kabanova shifted in her chair and suddenly said:
“Oh, come on, Zina. Lena’s right. We’re all used to someone doing everything for us. And then we act surprised when people finally snap.”
Tamarka from the pharmacy nodded.
“Same here. I cook every New Year’s. My husband thinks food just appears in the refrigerator by itself.”
Someone else chimed in.
Zinaida Markovna stood there, red as a flag, and said nothing. For the first time in her life—nothing.
And Lena picked up the pitcher of compote, poured it into glasses, and said quietly:
“The anniversary goes on. Help yourselves. Everything was made with care. It’s just that now you know exactly whose.”
And she sat down at the table.
The guests exchanged awkward glances. Then someone reached for the vinaigrette. Someone else for the herring.
Petrov raised his shot glass.
“Well then—to Zinaida Markovna. And to Lena. To both of them.”
They drank. In silence.
And Zinaida Markovna slowly sat back down. Picked up her fork. Prodded the herring.
Chewed.
And then, unexpectedly for everyone, said hoarsely:
“It’s delicious.”
That was all.
But Lena understood: it was a capitulation.
The anniversary continued. Strange, of course, but it continued.
The guests ate slowly, with a new kind of caution.
Lyudka Kabanova suddenly stood up and said, looking at Lena:
“Thank you for the table. Honestly. I’ve been breaking my back for everyone for thirty years too, and no one ever says thank you.”
“But I do say it!” her husband protested.
“In passing,” Lyudka snapped. “And it should be said properly. Like this.” She turned to Lena. “Thank you, Lenochka. Truly.”
Tamarka from the pharmacy joined in:
“And I second that. It’s delicious.”
The others nodded. Someone mumbled, “Yes, really.” Someone raised a glass.
Zinaida Markovna sat in silence. She ate the buckwheat in small portions, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. Her face gradually faded from crimson back to normal—just the tired face of an elderly woman.
That evening, when the last guest had gone and the door closed behind them, Sasha hugged his wife from behind and rested his forehead on her shoulder.
“You did well.”
“I’m tired,” Lena admitted.
“I know. But you did well.”
They stood in the middle of the room, where the remains of that simple, honest dinner still covered the tables, along with those very cards.
Suddenly Lena laughed. Softly. From exhaustion, from relief, from something else too.
And Lena put the cards into a box and placed it on a shelf—as a keepsake from the day she, for the first time in many years, no longer felt used.
