“I won’t eat that,” the motherinlaw declared, looking at the dish with disgust.
“What is this?” Eleonore wrinkled her nose, as if a bucket of trash had been set before her.
“It’s potaufeu,” her daughterinlaw Solène explained with a smile. She lifted the lid of a ceramic tureen and began ladling the steaming, colorful broth. “It’s a real pleasure to cook with vegetables from my own garden.”
“I see no difference,” the motherinlaw scoffed. “But gardening does take a lot of effort!”
“Undoubtedly,” Solène laughed warmly. “When it’s a hobby, it’s always enjoyable.”
“You speak of ‘your’ hobby, not one imposed on you,” Eleonore sniffed, pursing her lips. “For whom did you prepare all this?”
“For us. There’s not much, just enough for two meals.”
“I will not eat this mush,” the motherinlaw retorted, waving her hands back a step. “This stuff is incomprehensible!” Eleonore pretended to gag, covering her mouth and averting her gaze from the table.
Solène rolled her eyes and sighed.
She had met Maxime, Eleonore’s son, a year and a half earlier; their love was so sudden they married a month later, without a lavish ceremony. With the money they saved, they invested in a shared dream: a countryside house they were slowly fixing up with affection.
Meanwhile, Solène had only met Eleonore four timesjust as many as Maxime. In fact, three of those meetings were arranged by Solène, who persuaded her husband to visit his mother for the holidays.
Eleonore had always considered her son’s marriage a folly, but she had no control over an adult, independent son and had to wait for what she saw as the natural, logical outcome. That outcome was delayed, and it began to annoy her.
She couldn’t understand what Maxime had found in this “plain girl” and wondered how Solène had managed to charm him. He was a handsome young man, constantly surrounded by more sophisticated, attractive women.
Moreover, Eleonore was a city dweller through and through, having raised her son the same way. Her maternal intuition told her Maxime already had enough of country life and only needed a little push to revert to his former ways. After such a bitter experience, she was convinced he would finally find a partner who would forge genuine, friendly relations with her.
But she had to act quickly so the crafty Solène wouldn’t trap her son with a child!
Eleonore devised a plan: she called her daughterinlaw to ask for an invitation, since she hadn’t been invited to their housewarming. Solène reminded her that she had called twice, but Eleonore always declined, claiming she was busy. Eleonore brushed off those excuses and declared her intention to visit her son.
Two days later she found herself in a spacious, bright living room, unable to contain her indignation. Her son, like her and her late husband, despised soups! In their family, only easily recognizable dishes were accepted.
How could Maxime have let his wife quickly take charge? Was she a sorceress? A shiver of anxiety ran through Eleonore, and she immediately dismissed the crude thought that Solène kept Maxime with bedroom tricks.
Solène and tricks? Incompatible! Surely a spell! Otherwise, how to explain why her son was eating that mixture?
Eleonore shot a hateful glance at her daughterinlaw. She pretended to be a saint while she “slowly assassinated” her husband.
“Why is this incomprehensible?” Solène asked, seeming oblivious to her motherinlaw’s performance, while refilling a second bowl of potaufeu and handing it to Eleonore. “It’s simple: cabbage, onions, carrots, grated beets, per my grandmother’s recipe. No potatoes this time, but next time there will be. Then a few fresh garden herbs and a splash of cream!”
“Well, eat your mush!” the motherinlaw exclaimed, waving her hands.
“You could use it at your age! Fiber helps regulate bowel movements and improves gut flora. When the flora thrives, its owner does too!”
Eleonore blushed at Solène’s audacity but stayed silent and continued, “And why are you forcing Maxime to eat this?”
Solène blinked, puzzled.
“He seems to like it.”
“What can a man do if there’s nothing else to eat?”
“Cook what he prefers? Order takeout? Go to a neighbor? Visit his mother?” Solène listed, smiling.
At the last suggestion Eleonore flushed even more.
“Don’t be sarcastic! At least ask me what he likes, out of politeness.”
“Eleonore, I asked him directly. He’s old enough to speak for himself. He says he likes everything.”
“He lies! Can’t you see? At first he didn’t want to upset you. Now he’s forcing himself!”
“Oh!” Solène drew a long face and sighed. “The potaufeu is ready; we’re not tossing it. He must make an effort. Will you support him too?”
“What?!” the motherinlaw stared wideeyed at Solène.
“No? Too bad. I’m sure your son would appreciate your solidarity.”
“You”
“Solène! We’re home!” Maxime’s cheerful voice echoed from the hallway.
A fluffy white cloud burst into the living room, barking.
“Aaah!” Eleonore screamed, hiding behind Solène.
“Don’t worry, that’s Louna. She doesn’t bite and is welltrained,” Solène reassured, raising her hand. The dog calmed and sat obediently. “Sweetie, you’re wonderful.”
“Why let the neighbors’ dogs in?” Eleonore whispered, shocked.
“Why neighbors? She’s ours. She’s indoors because she’s a domestic dog. She lives with us.”
“Indoors? That’s unsanitary!” the motherinlaw retorted. “And Maxime doesn’t like dogs!”
“No, Mom, you don’t like dogs. Hello,” Maxime said, entering the room. “Perfect timing for lunch.”
“Hello, son!” Eleonore stayed put, expecting a kiss on the cheek, but Maxime gave her a light hug, while Solène received a gentle kiss on the lips.
“So, shall we eat?” the host sniffed the air, a dazed smile on his lips.
“With pleasure, Maxime, but there’s nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“You prepared food for the pigs. You never told me you had them. What a smell, worse than the city traffic.”
Maxime gave his mother a puzzled look, then Solène, then the spread on the table. His neck muscles tightened, and his gaze returned to his mother, stripped of the earlier lightness.
“Honestly, I forgot those habits,” Misha said, bitterly.
“What habits, son? Our tastes, principles, traditions! You’ve never complained!”
“I? As a child I feared your anger. As an adult I didn’t want to worsen things with you.”
“What are you talking about?!” Eleonore shouted, incredulous, triggering another round of Louna’s barking. “Quiet!” she protested, threatening the dog Solène held. “She has preferences,” she grinned at Solène, “but why let yourself be trampled? Happy to be fed rubbish? Allow her to turn the house into a menagerie? Who really rules this roof?”
“Me,” Maxime murmured darkly.
“Then act like the master of the house!” Eleonore declared, pleased.
“Where’s your luggage?” Maxime asked.
“Always at the entrance!” she complained instantly. “And I haven’t eaten since the trip.”
“Perfect. Thank Solène for the invitation.”
“What?”
“Thank Solène for this last attempt at reconciliation and apologize.”
“But she”
“Mom!”
“Thankyou and excuseme,” Eleonore muttered angrily.
Solène nodded solemnly.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Where everything is to your taste, according to your rules, your traditions.”
“But Maxime, I” her son tried to reason, but he cut her off:
“It was your tastes with Dad, not mine. My opinion mattered little. Yet he once told me, ‘You don’t like what’s ours; create your own.’ I followed his advice. Here it’s my taste, my rules, my traditions. And the lady of the house is my wife. Not happy? You still have your place.”
“My son! She turned you against me!” Eleonore adopted a plaintive tone. “She bewitched you!” she whispered dramatically.
Maxime had had enough. He grabbed his mother by the arm, led her to the entrance, took her travel bag, opened the door, and, in silence, escorted her to the gate, saying:
“By the way, know that Solène was on your side. She gets along well with her relatives. She didn’t think it could be like ours. In the kitchen a dish was prepared for you, but the potaufeu was the test. You showed your true face.” He opened the door: “The taxi is waiting.”
“You but how did you arrange a taxi?!” Eleonore stammered, still stunned by her son’s bluntness.
“I told Solène to wait and not release you right away. She did the right thing.”
“You! But you!” Eleonore protested.
“I, Mom, am the master of the house, just as you wanted,” Maxime signaled to the driver, placed his mother’s bag on the ground before she could climb into the car, entered the property, and closed the door.
“A spell,” Eleonore concluded, convinced she had diagnosed her son. Already seated in the taxi, she rummaged through her phone, searching for a way to break the enchantment, certain there must be something that would bring her son back.
I Won’t Eat That, Declares the Mother-in-Law with a Look of Disgust at the Dish
