Nina moved the phone away from her ear, looked at the screen as if expecting to see Larisa’s shameless face there, and slowly exhaled.
“I’m telling you, we’re coming to your place for pancakes with the whole family, but make sure you buy red caviar. We don’t eat plain ones!” her sister-in-law declared so loudly into the phone that even the cat, dozing on the windowsill, opened one eye and flicked one ear judgmentally.
“Hello to you too, Larisa,” Nina said in an even tone—the one they called “pre-storm” at work. “And where exactly are these gourmet demands coming from? As far as I know, we’re not hosting a noble assembly. It’s just an ordinary Saturday.”
“Well, it’s Maslenitsa!” the relative shot back with absolute certainty. “Traditions must be respected. Vitalik and I will come with the boys at two. So you’d better make an effort. And get proper sour cream too—not that watery stuff, but homemade, the kind a spoon can stand up in. And some sliced red fish. All right, kisses, I’m off to my manicure!”
The line beeped and went silent. Nina remained standing in the middle of the hallway with the smartphone clutched in her hand, feeling righteous indignation begin to boil inside her.
“Kostya!” she called to her husband. “Kostya, come here. I have wonderful news. Your sister has decided to bless us with a visit. With a rider like Philip Kirkorov.”
Konstantin looked out of the room. He was a decent man, calm and good-natured, but in the face of his younger sister’s pressure, he folded like a first-grader before the school principal. Hearing the news, he guiltily scratched the back of his head.
“Nin, come on… They’re family. They just want pancakes.”
“They can eat pancakes in a cafeteria,” Nina snapped, heading into the kitchen. “They want caviar. And fish. And farm sour cream. Have you seen the prices, Kostik? A jar of caviar costs half a utility bill now. And there are four of them. Plus us. How many jars am I supposed to buy? Three? So your moose-sized nephews, who are already twenty-two years old, can fill themselves up?”
“Well, I’ll give you money,” her husband offered timidly.
“It’s not about the money. It’s about the principle!” Nina slammed the kettle onto its stand. “This is what they call ‘simplicity worse than theft.’ Just once, they could have asked, ‘Nin, should we bring flour? Or milk?’ No! They’re coming like it’s an all-inclusive restaurant, except without wristbands and completely free.”
Nina sat down on a stool and thought. Refusing was impossible—Kostya would get upset and start walking around with the look of a beaten spaniel, and her mother-in-law, may God grant her health and a good memory from a distance, would immediately call with a lecture about family values. But she had absolutely no desire to feed the whole horde delicacies at her own expense while Larisa got her nails done.
“All right,” she said with unexpected calm. “They want caviar? They’ll get caviar. But by my rules…”
Saturday turned out gray and cloudy, but Nina’s fighting spirit scattered the gloom better than any aircraft. She had been busy in the kitchen since morning. She made batter—a lot of it, a whole bucketful. And she made pancakes masterfully, no one could argue with that. The pancakes flew from the pan golden, thin, and lacy—good enough to send to an exhibition.
Kostya, drawn in by the smell of baking, hovered nearby, trying to snatch a hot pancake.
“Haaaaands!” Nina slapped him lightly with a towel. “This is a strategic reserve. Guests are coming.”
At exactly 2:00 p.m., the doorbell rang. Larisa stood on the threshold in a new fur coat—bought on credit, of course, as the whole family knew. Beside her were her husband Vitalik, who was forever chewing and silent, and their twin sons, Denis and Anton. The boys were tall, ruddy, and permanently hungry. In the guests’ hands was… nothing. Absolutely nothing. They had not even brought a chocolate bar for tea.
“Oh, what a smell!” Larisa sniffed the air without even taking off her shoes. “Well done, Ninka. I hope you didn’t forget the caviar. Vitalik and I were dreaming about it the whole way here.”
“Come in, my dears, wash your hands,” Nina invited them in a honeyed voice. “Everything is ready, exactly as ordered.”
The table was laid out with merchant-like generosity, but with one nuance. In the middle stood a mountain of pancakes. Beside it were little bowls of jam—homemade, from the dacha—honey, and condensed milk. And in the center, on a crystal saucer, lay caviar. Red. Grainy.
True, the saucer was tiny. And sticking out of it was a silver coffee spoon the size of a baby’s fingernail.
“Sit down, help yourselves!” Nina commanded, seating the guests.
Larisa plopped onto a chair, swept the table with a sharp glance, and stared in confusion at the tiny caviar dish.
“Nin, what is this? A sample?” she snorted. “I told you, we’re coming with the whole family. This is barely enough for one bite!”
“Larochka,” Nina made a mournful face and pressed her hands to her chest. “You can’t imagine. This isn’t just caviar. It’s exclusive. Wild salmon, caught by hand in the ecologically pure waters of Kamchatka, under a full moon. I got it through connections, as a special favor. The price is frightening to even mention. Every single egg is worth its weight in gold. I decided it was better to buy a little, but real quality, than feed you store-bought chemicals. We’re family, after all. Only the best for our own!”
Kostya choked on air and coughed, hiding a smile in his fist. He had seen the receipt from the nearest supermarket perfectly well, where there was an ordinary jar bought on a “2+1” promotion, but he wisely remained silent. His wife was playing her own game.
The nephews, ignoring their aunt’s speech about the full moon, were already reaching their huge hands toward the pancakes.
“Mom, give us the caviar!” Denis boomed.
“Wait!” Nina stopped them with the authoritative gesture of a school vice principal. “A product like this cannot be eaten by the spoonful. That’s bad taste. It ruins the flavor. True gourmets,” she looked meaningfully at Larisa, “savor it little by little.”
Nina personally took the microscopic spoon and placed exactly five caviar eggs on each person’s pancake.
“There. Now roll it up and enjoy the bouquet of flavor. Can you feel the notes of sea breeze?”
Larisa grimaced, but did not argue—the status of “gourmet” demanded restraint. She rolled up the pancake, took a bite, and began chewing demonstratively slowly.
“Well… yes… Not bad. The salt is balanced. But, Nin, it’s not enough. The men need something more filling.”
“Then have some with meat!” Nina exclaimed cheerfully. “I made them specially.”
“Oh, meat is more like it,” silent Vitalik came to life.
Nina pushed a large platter of stuffed pancakes toward them.
“Help yourselves! The freshest filling.”
Vitalik greedily grabbed a pancake, bit off half, and froze. His jaws moved slowly, and an expression of deep bewilderment appeared in his eyes.
“Nin… what is this?” he asked with his mouth full. “This is… cabbage?”
“Cabbage!” the hostess confirmed radiantly. “Stewed with carrot and tomato paste. Delicious!”
“But you said they were with meat…”
“Well, cabbage is the meat of the garden!” Nina quoted an old joke without blinking. “Vitalik, too much animal protein is bad for you. Cholesterol, blood vessels… I’m taking care of your health. And meat these days… you know how it is. I thought: you asked for caviar. The entire budget went toward this exclusive delicacy from Kamchatka. I had to choose: elite caviar or ordinary meat. I chose the delicacy. How could I refuse my beloved sister-in-law?”
Larisa sat as red as that very caviar on the saucer. She understood that she had been outplayed, but there was nothing to complain about. Was there caviar? Yes. Were there pancakes? A mountain of them. Was there a respectable reason for the lack of meat? Yes—their own demand for an expensive product had been fulfilled.
“Is there any sausage?” one of the nephews asked gloomily, poking at his cabbage pancake with a fork.
“No, Denis dear,” Nina sighed. “We thought you’d fill up on caviar. Who could have known that after delicacies, you’d want sausage? That would completely overpower the taste!”
Lunch proceeded in a tense atmosphere. The guests, used to Nina’s table groaning under ham, baked pork, and salads, sadly chewed pancakes with cabbage and jam. The crystal caviar dish was empty within two minutes, despite Nina’s attempts to stretch out the pleasure.
“Maybe some tea?” Kostya suggested, trying to ease the tension.
“Fine,” Larisa muttered. “At least we’ll drink some tea.”
“Oh, and I have a surprise for tea!” Nina clapped her hands. “I baked your favorite pie!”
The nephews’ eyes lit up with hope.
“With chicken?” Anton asked.
“With fish?” Vitalik asked.
“With apples!” Nina announced solemnly, placing a charlotte on the table. “We still have a sea of apples left on the balcony from autumn. The harvest must be saved somehow.”
Larisa put down her fork. Her gaze held a mixture of offense and admiration at the hostess’s cunning.
“Thank you, Nina,” she said venomously. “A very… very diet-friendly table. Just like a sanatorium for ulcer patients.”
“Health comes first!” Nina raised one finger instructively. “You can see for yourselves what life is like now. Everything is getting more expensive. Utilities have gone up, transport has gone up. We have to set priorities. You, Larisa, asked for caviar—I nearly broke myself, but I got it. As for the rest, I had to… optimize. The economy must be economical, as the great ones used to say.”
She poured Larisa tea—plain, without sugar; the sugar bowl had “accidentally” remained on the kitchen counter—and continued:
“By the way, since we’re gathered as a family. Larisa, remember you said Vitalik was good with his hands? Our bathroom faucet is leaking, and the plumber from the management company charges outrageous money. Maybe Vitalik could take a look? And the boys can help Kostya clear out the balcony—his back has been acting up. You can work off the elite treat, so to speak. Pancakes are no cheap pleasure these days either—eggs, milk, butter…”
A ringing silence fell. Vitalik choked on a piece of charlotte. The nephews sank into their chairs. Larisa looked at her fresh manicure, then at Nina. Mischievous devils danced in Nina’s eyes, though her face remained completely impassive.
“Oh, Nin,” Larisa suddenly jumped up, glancing at her watch. “We completely forgot! We still have to stop by Vitalik’s parents’ place. They’re waiting for us. Right now.”
“Oh nooo,” Nina pretended to be upset. “You won’t even look at the faucet?”
“Next time! Definitely! Boys, get up. Dad, start the car!”
It took them exactly three minutes to gather themselves. The guests shot out of the apartment like a cork from a champagne bottle.
When the door slammed shut behind them, Nina leaned against the doorframe and slid down it from laughter. Kostya, peeking out of the room, smiled too.
“Well, you really are something, woman… ‘The meat of the garden!’ That was harsh.”
“It was perfectly fine,” Nina snorted, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “At least they’ll learn their lesson. You can’t come to someone’s home empty-handed and make demands like you’re in a Michelin-star restaurant.”
She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a stick of good dry-cured sausage hidden behind a pot, a piece of baked pork, and a jar of pickled cucumbers.
“Sit down, Kostya. Now we’ll celebrate Maslenitsa properly. They ate the caviar, would you believe it. But at least the pancakes are still ours.”
Kostya hugged his wife and kissed the top of her head.
“So was the caviar really from Kamchatka?”
“Yes, of course,” Nina smirked, slicing the sausage. “From the Pyaterochka around the corner. Imitation caviar. But the jar was pretty, wasn’t it? The main thing, Kostya, is presentation. And proper positioning.”
She winked at her husband, dipped a pancake in sour cream, and took a satisfied bite. The pancake was delicious. Beautiful. Homemade. And Larisa’s phone remained silent—apparently, they were still digesting the “cabbage strike” and looking for someone else to visit for a free dinner.
But that was no longer Nina’s problem.