Marie-Noëlle woke at dawn and, as usual, headed to the kitchen of her house on the outskirts of Lyon. To her surprise, her daughterinlaw was already busy at the stove.
Good morning, Anastasie said with a smile, stirring something in the pot.
Good morning, MarieNoëlle replied, scrunching her nose. What are you making?
A pistou soup, the daughterinlaw answered without looking up. Olivier loves it.
A pistou soup? the motherinlaw sniffed doubtfully. Does it usually smell like that?
What should it smell like then? Anastasie shrugged, covered the pot and left the kitchen.
Without missing a beat, MarieNoëlle rushed to the stove, lifted the lid, and peered inside. What she saw made her let out a horrified scream.
What on earth is that mixture? she whispered, stepping back as if facing poison.
Anastasie returned with plates and, noticing her motherinlaws reaction, calmly explained, Its a pistou soup, MarieNoëlle. The vegetables are from our gardenfresh, just picked. Cooking with what you grow feels like a celebration.
A celebration? the motherinlaw snorted, crossing her arms. That garden is a chore! Who has time to turn the soil when everythings available in the supermarket? I dont get it.
I love it, Anastasie replied softly while serving. The scent of basil, beans and tomatoes filled the kitchen. The earth gives so much energy when you work with it.
Energy? MarieNoëlle rolled her eyes. Its a hobby for people who have nothing better to do. Normal people She stopped when she saw Anastasie still smiling, as if she hadnt heard the barb. And for whom did you make all this?
For us, the daughterinlaw said. Just for a few days. Olivier always wants seconds.
MarieNoëlle stepped back, as if the aroma made her ill. I wont eat that! she declared emphatically. The smell alone makes me nauseous! What did you put in it?
Anastasie sighed, avoiding her motherinlaws gaze. From the corner of her eye she spotted Olivier entering the kitchen, watching silently.
MarieNoëlle couldnt understand what had happened to her son. Two years earlier, Olivier had been a promising citydwelling IT professional, attending exhibitions with her, talking about new restaurants, dreaming of his career. Now he lived in the countryside, tended a garden, and was married to simple Anastasiejust saying her name sent a shiver of irritation through MarieNoëlle.
Olivier had always been an enviable catchtall, smart, charming. Countless welltodo girls had swooned over him. Why had he chosen a country girl and a modest house away from everything? MarieNoëlle hoped he would tire of it and return to the city. Yet month after month, he sank deeper into this rural idyll.
She decided to act. Anastasies invitation presented the perfect opportunity. The motherinlaw plotted to remind her son of who he truly was and pull him out of the countryside before it was too late.
Olivier stepped into the kitchen, lifted his wife into his arms, and faced his mother, Mom, try the soup. Anastasie makes it perfectly!
Oliver, you know your father and I have never eaten those peasant soups, MarieNoëlle retorted. I remember you as a child making a face at pistou, calling it an oldpeoples dish.
Anastasie forced a smile, picturing a young Olivier refusing his plate. But now he was an adult, and his tastes had changed.
Mom, times change, he laughed. Anastasies soup is a masterpiece. Try it, youll see.
A masterpiece? MarieNoëlle gasped, indignant. You call a pot of beans a masterpiece? Real masterpieces belong in theaters and museums, not in that kitchen stew!
