A dreadful discovery in the motherinlaws pot
The motherinlaw glanced into the pot and screamed in horror
MarieNoëlle woke at dawn and, as usual, headed for the kitchen of her suburban home near Lyon. To her amazement, her daughterinlaw was already busy at the stove.
Good morning, Anastasie said, smiling while stirring something in the pot.
Morning, MarieNoëlle replied, narrowing her eyes. What are you making?
A pistou soup, the daughterinlaw answered without looking up. Olivier loves it.
A pistou soup? the motherinlaw sniffed skeptically. Does it really smell like that, normally?
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. The sight made her let out a gasp of terror.
What on earth is that mixture? she muttered, stepping back as if the contents were poison.
Anastasie returned with plates and, noticing her motherinlaws reaction, explained calmly:
Its a pistou soup, MarieNoëlle. The vegetables come straight from our gardenfresh, just picked. Cooking with your own produce feels like a celebration.
A celebration? the motherinlaw scoffed, crossing her arms. That garden is a chore! Why waste time tilling the soil when everything can be bought in a supermarket? I dont get it.
I enjoy it, Anastasie replied softly while ladling the soup. The aroma 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 with nothing better to do. Normal people She stopped when she saw Anastasie still smiling, as if the jabs didnt reach her. And for whom did you make all this?
For us, the daughterinlaw said. Just for a few days. Olivier always asks for more.
MarieNoëlle stepped back dramatically, as if the smell made her ill.
I wont eat that! she declared emphatically. Just the scent 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 ago, Olivier was a promising citydwelling IT youngster. They attended exhibitions together, talked about new restaurants, dreamed about his career. Now he lived in the country, tended a garden, and married a simple girl like Anastasiejust the thought made her skin crawl.
Olivier had always been a coveted partnertall, smart, charming. How many welltodo girls had sighed over him! Why had he chosen a country girl and a tiny hidden house? MarieNoëlle hoped hed 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 chance. The motherinlaw formed a plan: remind her son of who he really was and pull him out of the countryside before it was too late.
Olivier walked into the kitchen, lifted his wife into his arms and turned to his mother:
Mom, try the soup. Anastasie makes it perfectly!
Olivier, 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 have changed, he laughed. Anastasies soup is a masterpiece. Try it, youll see.
A masterpiece? the motherinlaw gasped in indignation. Olivier, you call a pot of beans a masterpiece? Real masterpieces belong in theatres and museums, not in this kitchencooking!
