“I won’t eat that,” the motherinlaw said, eyeing the dish with disgust.
“What is this?” Eleanor furrowed her nose, as if a bucket of trash had been placed on the table.
“It’s potaufeu,” her daughterinlaw Solène replied with a smile. She lifted the lid of a ceramic tureen and began ladling the steaming, colorful broth. “It’s a real pleasure to cook with vegetables from my own garden.”
“I don’t see the point,” the motherinlaw sneered. “But gardening does take a lot of effort!”
“Without a doubt,” Solène laughed warmly. “When it’s a hobby, its always enjoyable.”
“You’re talking about *your* hobby, not some imposed pastime,” Eleanor said, pinching her lips. “For whom did you prepare all this?”
“For us. There’s not muchjust enough for two meals.”
“I won’t touch that mush,” the motherinlaw retorted, waving her hands and stepping back. “This stuff is incomprehensible!” Eleanor pretended to gag, covering her mouth and averting her gaze from the table.
Solène rolled her eyes and sighed.
She had met Maxime, Eleanors son, a year and a half earlier. Their love was so sudden they married a month later, without a lavish ceremony. With the money they saved, they invested in a shared dream: a countryside house, which they were slowly turning into a home with love.
Meanwhile, Solène had only seen Eleanor four timesjust as often as Maxime. In fact, three of those meetings were because Solène had persuaded her husband to visit his mother for the holidays.
Eleanor had always considered her sons marriage a folly, but she had no control over her grown, independent child, so she waited for what she deemed the natural, logical outcome. That outcome, however, was delayed, and it began to irritate her.
She could not understand what Maxime had found in this “ordinary girl” and wondered how Solène had managed to enchant him. He was a handsome young man, constantly surrounded by more refined and attractive women.
Eleanor was a citydweller through and through and had raised her son the same way. Motherly intuition told her that Maxime already had enough of rural life and that a little nudge would return things to the way they were. After that bitter experience, she was convinced he would eventually find a partner who would forge genuine friendships with her.
She had to act quickly and prevent the clever Solène from trapping her son with a child!
Eleanor devised a plan: she called her daughterinlaw to ask for an invitation, since she had not been invited to the housewarming. Solène reminded her that she had called twice, but Eleanor always slipped away, claiming she was busy. Eleanor brushed off those excuses with a wave of her hand and declared her intention to visit her son.
Two days later she found herself in a bright, spacious living room, barely containing her indignation. Her son, like her and her late husband, despised soups! In their family, only clearly recognizable dishes were accepted.
How could Maxime have let his wife take charge so quickly? Was she a witch? A shiver of anxiety ran through Eleanor. She immediately dismissed the crude notion that Solène kept Maxime with bedroom prowess.
Tricks and Solène? Incompatible! Surely a spell! Otherwise, how could her son be eating that mixture?
Eleanor shot a hateful look at her daughterinlaw. She pretended to be a saint while she “slowly murdered” her husband.
“Why is this incomprehensible?” Solène asked, seemingly oblivious to her motherinlaws act, as she filled a second bowl of potaufeu and handed it to Eleanor. “Its simple. Theres cabbage, onions, carrots, and grated beetroot, just like my grandmothers recipe. No potatoes this time, but Ill add them next. Then a handful of fresh garden herbs and a dash of cream!”
“Well, eat your mush!” the motherinlaw exclaimed, waving her hands.
“You could use it at your age! Fiber regulates intestinal transit and improves gut flora. When the flora thrives, its owner does too!”
Eleanor flushed at Solènes boldness but said nothing and continued, “And why force Maxime to eat this?”
Solène blinked, puzzled.
“It seems he likes it.”
“What can a man do if theres nothing else to eat?”
“Cook what he prefers? Order takeout? Go to a neighbors? Visit his mother?” Solène listed with a smile.
At the last suggestion Eleanor turned even redder.
“Dont be sarcastic! At least ask me what he likes, out of courtesy.”
“Eleanor, I asked him directly. Hes old enough to speak for himself. He says he likes everything.”
“Hes lying! Cant you see? At first he didnt want to upset you. Now he forces himself!”
“Oh!” Solène drew a long face and sighed. “The potaufeu is ready; were not throwing it away. He must try. Will you also support him?”
“What?!” the motherinlaw exclaimed, eyes wide.
“No? Too bad. Im sure your son would appreciate your solidarity.”
“You”
“Solène! Were home!” Maximes cheerful voice echoed from the hallway.
A fluffy white cloud burst into the living room, barking.
“Aaaah!” Eleanor screamed, hiding behind Solène.
“Dont worry, its Louna. She doesnt bite and shes wellbehaved,” Solène reassured, raising her hand. The dog settled and sat obediently. “Sweetie, youre wonderful.”
“Why are you letting the neighbors dogs in?” Eleanor whispered, stunned.
“Why the neighbors? Shes ours. Shes inside because shes a domestic dog. She lives with us.”
“Inside? Thats unsanitary!” the motherinlaw protested. “And Maxime doesnt like dogs!”
“No, Mom, you dont like dogs. Hello,” Maxime said, entering the room. “Youre just in time for lunch.”
“Hello, son!” Eleanor stayed put, waiting for a kiss on the cheek, but Maxime only gave her a brief hug while Solène received a gentle kiss on the lips.
“So, shall we eat?” the host sniffed the air, a blissful smile on his face.
“With pleasure, Maxime, but theres nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“You prepared food for the pigs. By the way, you never told me you had them. The smell must be worse than the city traffic.”
Maxime looked at his mother, puzzled, then at Solène, then at the set table. His neck muscles tightened, and his gaze returned to his mother, losing the earlier lightness.
“Honestly, Id forgotten those quirks,” Misha said, bitterly.
“What quirks, my son? Our tastes, principles, traditions! You never complained!”
“I? As a child I feared your wrath. As an adult I didnt want to worsen things with you.”
“What are you talking about?!” Eleanor shouted, incredulous, prompting another round of Lounas barks. “Quiet!” she ordered, threatening the dog Solène was holding. “She has her preferences,” she grumbled at Solène, “but why let yourself be trampled? Happy feeding on filth? Letting her turn the house into a menagerie? Who really rules under this roof?”
“Me,” Maxime murmured darkly.
“Then act like the master of the house!” Eleanor declared, pleased.
“Wheres your luggage?” Maxime asked.
“Always at the entrance!” she complained instantly. “And I havent eaten since the trip.”
“Perfect. Thank Solène for the invitation.”
“What?”
“Thank Solène for this final attempt at reconciliation and apologize.”
“But she”
“Mom!”
“Thanks and exc excuse” Eleanor muttered angrily.
Solène nodded solemnly.
“Lets go.”
“Where?”
“To wherever everything suits you, according to your rules, your traditions.”
“But Maxime, I” her son began, but he cut her off:
“It was your taste with Dad, not mine. My opinion mattered little. Yet he once told me, You dont like whats ours; create your own. I followed his advice. Here, its my taste, my rules, my traditions. The lady of the house is my wife. Not happy? You still have your place.”
“My son! She turned you against me!” Eleanor adopted a plaintive tone. “She bewitched you!” she whispered dramatically.
Maxime could take no more. He grabbed his mothers arm, led her to the entrance, grabbed her travel bag, opened the door, and silently escorted her to the gate, saying:
“By the way, know that Solène was on your side. She gets along with her relatives. She didnt think it could be like our place. In the kitchen a dish was prepared for you, but the potaufeu was the test. You showed your true face,” Maxime opened the door. “The taxi is waiting.”
“You but how did you arrange a taxi?!” Eleanor stammered, still shocked by her sons bluntness.
“I told Solène to wait and not let you leave right away. She did the right thing.”
“You! You!” Eleanor fumed.
“Me, Mom, the master of the house. Just as you wanted,” Maxime signaled the driver, placed his mothers bag on the ground without waiting for her to climb in, reentered the property, and shut the door.
“A spell,” Eleanor concluded, convinced she had diagnosed her son. Already seated in the taxi, she rummaged through her phone, searching for a way to break the enchantment, certain there must be something that could bring her son back.
I Won’t Eat That, Declared the Stepmother, Eyeing the Dish with Disgust
