Family Borscht or rather, Family Stew.
Your idea of feeding guests soup, Mother? John sniffed the kitchen air with a grimace. The scent of fried tomatoes and last years cabbage hung thick. Theyre always off to the new cafés and restaurants in London. Why not make something a bit more interesting than plain borscht? Ugh.
Meatballs are still on the way, a potato salad with mayo, and pancakes, Margaret snapped, her voice sharp. And a nice sliced loaf But honestly, get out of my sight, you old fool. Ill manage without you. Off, before you get a ladle to the head. Waitstay! Turn the pot off in five minutes, Im heading out, she changed her mind abruptly, tugging off her apron.
Where are you off to? John asked, adjusting his trousers, his eye flicking nervously toward the stove.
To meet the guests. They said theyd be here in ten minutes. Ill pick up a fresh loafsomeone always comes hungry. He shuffled toward the hallway.
Margaret stood before the mirror, trying to fix her short, permed hair. It sat the way it should for a woman her age, but she hated it. Gone were the days when shed been a blooming beauty, holding onto that image for far too long. Now she felt like a wilted flower that no one could revive.
Are they little children? Theyll help themselves, John ventured.
Dont you blur your vision, John. Ill sort this without you. Remember the pot and put something on before you walk around in just your underwear, she retorted, cheeks flushed.
Why so angry today? John tried, a hint of hurt in his tone.
I dont know! Youll never understand, Margaret snapped, swaying toward the lift.
She thought of her son, Peter, who came home every yearandahalf with a new girlfriendeach one more demanding than the last, all insisting on vegan, lowcalorie, or glutenfree meals, never satisfied with the utensils at the restaurant. They never have a proper dinner knife, and yet they manage, she muttered. These ladies sniff at anything I cook.
Determined, Margaret decided shed keep it simple: a hearty, everyday stew that would fill bellies without fuss.
Outside, the May breeze was fresh. Margaret inhaled the clean air and, before she could register the shiny black Mercedes pulling up, she spotted her sons car. Peter, thirtyseven, still drudging through freelance gigs, his life a tangle of apps and halffinished projects. Hed never settled, never had a family of his own. Margaret longed for a grandchild; all her friends already had babies in cribs, while she felt left out, empty.
Mum, why are you out here? We could have brought the food ourselves, Peter said, hugging her. This is Emily, he added, introducing his girlfriend.
Hello, Emily replied with a bright smile.
Ahhellhello, Margaret stammered, relief flashing through her. Finally, someone who looks like a regular person, not a circus act. She looks decent, a bit like a country girl from Yorkshire, so thats something.
Shall we get inside? Peter asked.
Hold on, Mum, theres a bag of drinks and a gift box for you in the boot, Emily said, eyes twinkling.
A gift? Margarets curiosity sparked.
Emily works in environmental protection, fighting for cleaner streets. The gift is right for the kitchen, she added, handing over the box.
John, seeing his wifes sudden enthusiasm, offered, Mum, could you take the bag? Ill lug the boxEmily cant carry heavy things.
Margaret, already planning how to hide the awkwardness of the new relationship, took the bag stiffly, as if it were a robots task, and slipped it into the hallway.
They all settled at the table after the usual greetings. Emily didnt bat an eye at the steaming stew, scooping it up with a spoon. She spoke hesitantly about her job, blushing. Im a junior officer in the citys environmental monitoring team, she said, barely audible.
Is that a proper job? Margaret asked.
Yes, Im officially employed.
See, Peter, youve been freelancing for ten years with no contract. What happens if you fall ill? What about a pension? Time flies, and youre already thirtyseven, Margaret pressed, her concern finally surfacing.
Oh, Mum, I wont make it to retirement, dont worry, Peter replied lightly.
Dont be so sure. One day youll be sitting on the porch, wondering why you never prepared, Margaret warned.
Enough, stop. Youre ruining my appetite. Dad, pass the pancake and cheese, will you? Peter tried to change the subject, but his father kept interrupting, raising a toast at every chance.
Emily, smiling, rose. The stew is wonderful, Margaret Smith. May I help clear the table?
The women began hauling dishes back to the kitchen. Spotting the slightly greasy stove, Emily clapped her hands. Your gift is over here! Almost forgot! She opened the box, revealing ecofriendly cleaning products.
These are biodegradable cleaners, made from fruit extracts. They dissolve in water and wont harm the environment, she explained. Want to try them now? I can polish the stove while we wash the dishes with this special gel.
Margaret stepped back, shielding the stove. No, love, I havent cleaned it in three days. It would be embarrassing.
Dont worry, I grew up on a farm and have seen every kind of stove, Emily laughed. Just spray a little, Ill finish with a sponge.
Emily worked swiftly. Margaret, rolling bread crumbs across the table, peppered Emily with questions about her education, family, and how she met Peter. The answers were respectable, satisfying Margarets curiosity. Emilys hands moved effortlessly over the stove, wiping away grime as if it were nothing.
Thank you for the lovely gifts, dear Emily, Margaret admitted, still wary of any hidden agenda.
Just then, Peter knocked his glass on the sideboard, calling everyone back to the living room. He pulled Emily close, hand resting on her belly, and announced, Weve decided to get married.
Oh! Margaret gasped.
And thats not all, Peter continued, eyes shining. Were expecting a baby. Expect a grandchild this winter.
Bless my soul! Margaret exclaimed, arms flailing, The Holy Mother has heard my prayers, the angels have smiled upon us!
She swung her arms wide, embracing Emily, then shushed Peter, who made a sudden, nervous movement. Be gentle, love. I know how to handle a pregnant lady.
Emily, eyes misty, whispered, Margaret, could you share your recipes? I cant cook a stew like yours, especially borscht.
Margarets laughter rang out, tears of joy spilling. Emily, thats my dreampassing on my cooking, my love, to my grandchild. Its my humble wish finally coming true, thanks to you.
She looked around the bustling kitchen, the steaming pot, the gleaming dishes, and realized that all the fuss over fancy menus and perfect utensils meant little compared with the simple, steady warmth of family. In the end, love and understanding are the true nourishment that keeps a household thriving.
