A Week of Sausage: How My MotherinLaw Monitors Our Servings
The weekly sausage or how my motherinlaw keeps count of our bites
It was a July day when Hélène Lucienne was scrubbing the windows, shaking out the cushions and reminding her daughter that it was time to head out to the countryside the garlic was ready for harvest. Élodie tried to excuse herself: work, obligations, the kids Yet her mother, as stubborn as ever, would not budge.
Summer is ending soon, and youre still cooped up in your Paris flat! she snapped over the phone, irritated. The strawberries will spoil, the potatoes will turn green, and youll stay glued to your phones!
At last they settled on a weekend visit, partly to help in the garden and partly to enjoy a quiet evening.
Alexandre had no desire to travel. Their previous trip had ended badly, leaving a sour taste. He had simply asked for a bit of sausage to go with the couscous but his motherinlaw flatout refused. So bluntly that he was left speechless.
On Saturday they left early. They worked efficiently: the garlic was pulled up, sorted and stored. All that remained was the evening, dinner, and family conversation. Alexandre showered, then entered the kitchen. Élodie and her mother were setting the table while the aroma of couscous filled the room. To stall, he opened the fridge, grabbed a few slices of sausage for a sandwich when suddenly
Dont touch that! Hélène Luciennes voice cracked like a gunshot.
The sausage was slammed back into the fridge. Alexandre froze, stunned.
Whats happening, Mom? Élodie asked, bewildered.
The sausage is for breakfast, with bread! Not now. And dont ruin your appetite! the motherinlaw snapped.
Alexandre tasted the couscous, but there was no meat in sight. He asked again for a bit of sausage. Another refusal.
Why this obsession? Hélène Lucienne snapped. Youve already eaten half of it! Do you know how much it costs? Its supposed to last the whole week!
He pushed his plate away. With his appetite gone, he slipped outside, lay on the garden sofa and stared at the ceiling. Élodie joined him later.
Im going back inside. I cant stand this atmosphere. Every move is watched, as if I were a thief. I even fear buttering my toast too much, lest it slip from my hands.
There isnt even a grocery store here, Élodie muttered, embarrassed. Just the greengrocers van on Wednesdays.
We should have brought food instead of cherries and apricots, Alexandre grumbled. Im leaving tomorrow. Ill pick you up later, because without meat I wont last long.
Well leave together, Élodie declared firmly.
The next morning they drove back to Paris. Élodie lied to her mother, claiming a work emergency for Alexandre. The motherinlaw watched them go, her stare icy.
A year passed without them stepping foot in Hélène Luciennes house. She, however, visited them without hesitation. Strangely, she would rummage through their fridge as if it were her own, taking whatever she wanted without asking. Alexandre even laughed:
Look at the sausage! Apparently it has full rights here
Come spring the calls resumed:
So, when are you coming back? The garden isnt waiting forever.
Alexandre resisted, until Élodie suggested a trick:
Lets bring supplies. That way Mom cant count our portions.
He agreed on the condition they detour to the supermarket. And there they were again, standing before the country house, arms loaded with bags.
What is this now? Apricots? Hélène Lucienne asked, pursing her lips. While rummaging through the bags she discovered cheese, meat, sausage, and fell silent.
Now you wont have to calculate how many grams I eat, Alexandre joked.
Hélène Lucienne let out a soft, disdainful sigh but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she whispered to Élodie:
It would be nice if you always brought provisions. Simpler for me, easier for you.
Élodie nodded, torn between irritation and amusement. The key point was clear: Alexandre was willing to return with groceries, yes, but without quarrels or accusations. And, on reflection, that too was a kind of family happiness.
