A terrifying discovery in motherinlaws pot
Motherinlaw glanced into the pot and let out a horrified scream
MarieNoëlle awoke at dawn and, as usual, headed for the kitchen of her suburban home outside Lyon. To her surprise, her daughterinlaw was already bustling at the stove.
Good morning, Anastasie smiled, stirring something in the pot.
Good morning, MarieNoëlle grumbled, crinkling her nose. What are you making?
A pistou soup, the daughterinlaw replied without looking up. Olivier loves it.
A pistou soup? the motherinlaw sniffed skeptically. Does it normally smell like that?
How should it smell? Anastasie shrugged, covered the pot and left the kitchen.
Without pausing, MarieNoëlle rushed to the stove, lifted the lid and peered inside. What she saw made her let out a scream of terror.
What on earth is this mixture? she whispered, stepping back as if facing poison.
Anastasie returned with plates and, noticing her motherinlaws reaction, explained calmly:
Its a pistou soup, MarieNoëlle. The vegetables are from our gardenfresh, just picked. Cooking with our own produce feels like a celebration.
A celebration? the motherinlaw snorted, crossing her arms. That garden is a chore! Why waste time digging when everything can be bought in a supermarket? I dont get it.
I love it, Anastasie answered gently as she ladled the soup. The scent of basil, beans and tomatoes filled the kitchen. Working with soil gives so much energy.
Energy? MarieNoëlle rolled her eyes. Its a hobby for people with nothing better to do. Normal folks She stopped midsentence when she saw Anastasie still smiling, as if oblivious to the jibes. And for whom did you make that?
For us, the daughterinlaw said. For a few days. Olivier will always take more.
MarieNoëlle stepped back dramatically, as if the soups aroma made her ill.
I wont eat that! she declared emphatically. 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 spotted Olivier, who had just entered the kitchen and was watching in silence.
MarieNoëlle could not understand what had happened to her son. Two years earlier, Olivier had been a promising citydwelling IT professional. They attended exhibitions together, talked about new restaurants, dreamed about his career. And now this country life, the garden, this simpleminded Anastasie! Just hearing her name sent a shiver of irritation through her.
Olivier had always been an enviable catchtall, smart, charming. How many welltodo girls had sighed over him! Why had he chosen a country girl and a tiny house hidden away? MarieNoëlle hoped he would tire of it and move back 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 turned to his mother:
Mom, taste the soup. Anastasie makes it perfectly!
Olivier, you know your father and I have never eaten those peasant soups, MarieNoëlle retorted. I remember when you were little you made a face at pistou. You called it an oldpeoples dish.
Anastasie forced a smile, picturing a child Olivier rejecting her bowl. But now he was a man, and his tastes had changed.
Mom, times have changed, he laughed. Anastasies soup is a masterpiece. Try it, youll see.
A masterpiece? the motherinlaw sputtered, indignant. Olivier, you call a pot of beans a masterpiece? Real masterpieces belong in theaters, museums, not in this kitchen concoction!
