MarieNoëlle woke at dawn and, as always, headed for the kitchen of her house on the outskirts of Lyon. To her astonishment, her daughterinlaw was already busy at the stove.
Good morning, Anastasie said with a smile, stirring something in the pot.
Good morning, MarieNoëlle replied, nostrils flaring. 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 really smell like that, normally?
What should it smell like, then? Anastasie shrugged, covered the pot and left the kitchen.
Without hesitation, 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 the broth were poison.
Anastasie returned with plates, and, noticing her motherinlaws reaction, explained calmly:
Pistou soup, MarieNoëlle. The vegetables are from our gardenfresh, just picked. Cooking with what you grow feels like a celebration.
A celebration? the motherinlaw scoffed, crossing her arms. That garden is a chore! Why waste time digging when you can buy everything at the supermarket? I dont get it.
I enjoy it, Anastasie replied softly while serving the soup. The aroma of basil, beans and tomatoes filled the room. The soil 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, noticing Anastasie still smiling as if the remarks didnt reach her. And who are you cooking this for?
For us, the daughterinlaw said. For a few days. Olivier will keep having seconds.
MarieNoëlle stepped back dramatically, as if the scent itself made her sick.
I wont eat that! she declared, her voice rising. Just the smell makes me nauseous! What did you put in it?
Anastasie sighed, avoiding her motherinlaws gaze. From the corner of her eye she saw Olivier enter the kitchen, watching silently.
MarieNoëlle couldnt understand what had happened to her son. Two years earlier, Olivier had been a promising citydwelling computer professional. They attended exhibitions together, talked about new restaurants, dreamed about his career. Now, life in the countryside, the garden, and this simple Anastasiejust hearing her name sent a shiver of irritation through MarieNoëlle.
Olivier had always been an enviable catchtall, smart, charming. Countless girls from respectable families had sighed over him. Why had he chosen a country girl and a tiny, hidden house? 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 was the perfect opportunity. The motherinlaw devised a plan: remind her son of who he really was and pull him out of the countryside before it was too late.
Olivier entered the kitchen, lifted his wife into his arms and faced his mother:
Mom, try the soup. Anastasie makes it perfectly!
Olivier, you know your father and I never ate those peasant soups, MarieNoëlle retorted. I remember you making a face at pistou as a child, calling it an oldpeoples dish.
Anastasie forced a smile, picturing a young Olivier rejecting her bowl. But now he was an adult, and his tastes had changed.
Mom, times have changed, he laughed. Anastasies soup is a masterpiece. Try it, youll see.
A masterpiece? MarieNoëlle sputtered, indignation rising. Olivier, you call a pot of beans a masterpiece? Real masterpieces belong in theaters and museums, not in this kitchen concoction!
