З життя
Десять років подружнього життя, і свекруху щиро поважаю та люблю.
Ось уже десять років як я заміжня за Тарасом, а його матір, Марію Іванівну, щиро поважаю і навіть люблю. Вона добра, турботлива, завжди готова допомогти з дітьми або пригостити нас своїми знаменитими варениками. Але є одна її звичка, до якої я так і не змогла звикнути — вона постійно залишає ложку у салатнику! Та не просто кладе, а буквально встромляє, ніби прапор на вершині гори. На Великдень ми знову збиратимемося за її великим столом, і я вже морально готуюся до цього кулінарного ритуалу. Але, чесно кажучи, такі дрібниці лише додають нашим родинним посиденькам колориту, і я вже не уявляю наше життя без цих теплих зустрічей.
Марія Іванівна — жінка, яку неможливо не поважати. Коли я тільки вийшла за Тараса, я, як і будь-яка молода невістка, трохи боялася свекрухи. Чула від подруг історії про «чудовиськ у спідниці», які все критикують. Але Марія Іванівна виявилася зовсім іншою. Вона зустріла мене з посмішкою, навчила ліпити свої легендарні вареники з вишнями і ніколи не лізла з непроханими порадами. Коли народилися наші діти, Оленка й Івасик, вона стала для них найкращою бабусею: грається з ними, читає казки, а її цукерки з потаємної скриньки — це взагалі окрема історія. Я щиро вдячна долі, що в мене така свекруха. Але от ця її ложка в салаті… Це мій особистий кошмар.
Все почалося на першій же родинній вечері, куди ми з Тарасом прийшли ще як наречені. Марія Іванівна накрила стіл, наче для царського бенкету: олів’є, салат з крабовими паличками, холодець, запечена курка — усе ідеально. Я, стараючись бути хорошою гостя, похвалила страви і потягнулася за порцією. І тут бачу: у салатнику з олів’є стирчить величезна ложка, прямо посередині, ніби щогла. Я тоді подумала, що це випадковість, акуратно вийняла її і поклала поруч. Але через хвилину Марія Іванівна, проходячи повз, знову встромила її назад! «Так зручніше, Соломійко, бери, не соромся!» — сказала вона з усмішкою. Я лише кивнула, але всередині у мене був культурний шок.
З того часу ця ложка стала моїм випробуванням. На кожній святковій вечері — Новий рік, Великдень, дні народження — вона з’являється у салатах, ніби неминуча доля. То це олів’є, то мімоза, а одного разу навіть у грецький салат, де вона виглядала дивно на тлі фети та маслин. Я намагалася боротися: виймала ложку, клала поруч, пропонувала розкласти салат заздалегідь. Та Марія Іванівна непохитна. «Соломійко, це традиція, — каже. — У нас у родині так завжди робили!» Тарас лише сміється: «Мамо, хто зараз ложки в салат встромляє?» А вона у відповідь: «Ви, молодь, нічого не тямите у справжніх застіллях!»
Тепер, коли я думаю про майбутній Великдень, одразу уявляю цей стіл. Марія Іванівна, як завжди, буде на чолі, у своєму святковому фартусі, з сяючою посмішкою. На столі — паски, писанки, ковбаси, і, звичайно, її фірмові салати з вічною ложкою. Я навіть жартую з Тарасом, що треба подарувати свекрусі спеціальну підставку, щоб вона перестала встромляти ложки куди попало. Але, чесно кажучи, ця її звичка вже стала частиною нашого родинного фольклору. Оленка, наша донька, якось намалювала бабусю з гігантською ложкою у салатнику — і ми всі реготали, включно з Марією Іванівною.
Великодні посиденьки у свекрухи — це завжди подія. Вона збирає всю родину: нас з Тарасом і дітьми, його сестру з чоловіком, двоюрідних братів, сусідів. Стіл накрито так, що скатертини не видно, а їжі вистачило б на тиждень. Марія Іванівна метушиться, підкладає всім добавки, розповідає історії зі своєї молодості. Я дивлюся на неї й думаю: звідки в неї стільки енергії? Вона встигає і паски спекти, і яйця розписати, і навіть з Івасиком у «битки» пограти. А я після однієї суботньої приготування мрію про диван і серіал.
Торік на Великдень я вирішила допомогти їй у кухні, сподіваючись, що врятую салати від ложок. Але не тут-то було. Поки я нарізала овочі, Марія Іванівна вже сервірувала страви і, звичайно, встромляла у кожну ложку. «Ось так гарно!» — сказала вона, оглядаючи свою роботу. Я лише зітхнула і змирилася: та й бог із нею. Зрештою, це її дім, її правила. А я просто насолоджуюся смачною їжею і вчуся ігнорувати ці кулінарні «віхи».
Часом я міркую: може, ця ложка — не просто звичка, а якийсь символ? Може, для Марії Іванівни це спосіб показати, що вона піклується, хоче, щоб усі їли до смаку? Я навіть запитала в Тараса, звідки це пішло. Він лише знизав плечима: «Мамі здається, що так гості швидше почнуть їсти. Вона ж годує всіх, як на забій». І справді, піти зі столу свекрухи голодним неможливо. Навіть Івасик, який зазвичай примхливий, уплітає її котлети за обидві щоки.
Тепер, готуючись до ВеликодняІ тепер я вже з усмішкою чекаю на ту легендарну ложку, яка знову з’явиться в олів’є, нагадуючи, що родинні традиції — це те, що робить наші свята справді особливими.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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