З життя
Общая кухня и невеликие старання невістки
Спільна кухня та ледачий зять
Ми з Олегом живемо в його будинку — ну, не зовсім його. Окрім нас тут мешкають його молодший брат Богдан та його дружина Мар’яна. У нас одна кухня на всіх, продукти купуємо спільно, готуємо по черзі, а рахунки ділимо навпіл. Звучить ідеально, так? Але Мар’яна, наша дорога невістка, схоже, вирішила, що господарство — не її клопіт. Вона ані ложки не вимиє, ані картоплі не почистить, а я вже на межі, щоб вручити їй щітку і сказати: «Ласкаво просимо до дорослого життя!» Але поки що стримуюсь, хоч терпець мій тане швидше за сніг на сонці.
Будинок дістався Олегу й Богдану від бабусі, і коли ми одружилися, вирішили жити разом — так і вигідніше, і простору багато. Я не заперечувала: Богдан хлопець тихий, працює на СТО, вдома його майже не буває. А от Мар’яна… Ох, з нею все непросто. Коли вони з Богданом щойно поженилися, я думала, вона просто соромиться, не хоче втручатися в спільні справи. Але минуло півроку, і я зрозуміла: сором тут ні до чого. Мар’яна — чемпіонка з ухилення від будь-якої роботи. Вона може годинами сидіти у кімнаті, гортати соцмережі або фарбувати нігті, поки я на кухні готую вечерю на четверо.
Наша система проста: продукти купуємо спільно, готуємо по черзі. Я з Олегом беремо на себе більшу частину тижня, Богдан інколи пече м’ясо чи робить свої знамениті налисники, а Мар’яна… Ну, її черга — це коли вона замовить вареники або поставить на стіл сирники з написом «вечеря готова». І якби вона просто не любила готувати, але ж вона навідріз відмовляється навіть посуд за собою прибирати! Я одного разу порахувала: за тиждень я мию цілу гору тарілок, з яких половина — її кавові чашки з недопитим американо. А коли я прошу її прибрати, вона дивиться на мене, ніби я з іншої планети, і каже: «Ой, Наталю, я забула, зроблю завтра». Завтра? Це завтра ніколи не настає!
Я пробувала говорити з Олегом. «Олежу, — кажу, — твоя невістка нас за покоївку вважає. Може, Богдан з нею поговорить?» Олег лише сміється: «Наталю, не дратуйся, Мар’яна просто не звикла до господарства. Вона ж з міста, у неї мама все робила». З міста? А я, виходить, з села прийшла? Я теж у місті виросла, але це не заважає мені чистити буряки і витирати пил. Богдан, коли я натякнула йому, лише знизав плечима: «Мар’яна така, яка є. Не хоче готувати — не змушу». Не змушу? А хто тоді годуватиме цю компанію, якщо я теж почну «не хотіти»?
Ось недавно був випадок, який мене добив. Я готувала борщ — справжній, на свининці, як Олег любить. Потратила три години, накрила на стіл, кличу всіх. Мар’яна спускається, накладає собі повну миску і каже: «Наталю, а чому без сметани? Треба було додати». Я ледь ложку не випустила. Без сметани? Це я, значить, півдня біля плити стояла, щоб почути, що мій борщ «не такий»? А вона навіть дякую не сказала, поїла і пішла, залишивши брудну тарілку. Тоді я не витримала: «Мар’яно, якщо не подобається — готуй сама». Вона лише фыркнула: «Та я ж не вмію, Наталю, у тебе краще виходить». Краще? То я тепер офіційно головна кухарка цього будинку?
Я почала думати, що діяти. Перший варіант — оголосити страйк. Перестати готувати, прибирати, купувати продукти. Подивимося, як Мар’яна заспіває, коли в холодильнику залишиться лише її кефір. Але я знаю, що Олег і Богдан почнуть бурчати, а мені не хочеться сваритися з чоловіком через неї. Другий варіант — поговорити з нею відверто. Сказати: «Мар’яно, ми тут не в ресторані, або допомагай, або їж у кафе». Але я боюся, що вона знову вдасть, ніби не розуміє, або почне скаржитися Богдану, і він буде звинувачувати мене. Третій варіант — змиритися. Але це не про мене. Я не збираюся бути прислугою у власному домі.
Інколи я мрію, що ми з Олегом знімаємо квартиру і переїжджаємо. Але цей будинок — Олегова спадщина, він його любить, та й я звикла до цього місця: тут і садок, і ґанок, і затишок. Не хочу через Мар’яну відмовлятися від того, що нам дороге. Я навіть пробувала хитрити: запропонувала розділити кухню на «зони відповідальності». Мовляв, кожен відповідає за свої продукти та посуд. Але Мар’яна лише кивнула і продовжила пити каву з моєї чашки. Схоже, вона просто броньована.
Моя подруга, коли я їй пожалілася, порадила: «Наталю, дай їй конкретне завдання. Скажи, що вона готує вечерю у середу, і крапка». Я спробувала. Призначила Мар’яні день, а вона у відповідь: «Ой, Наталю, я в середу зайнята, давай ти?» Зайнята? Дивитися сторис? Я вже на межі, щоб повісити на кухні розклад із написом: «Мар’яно, твій день — або готуй, або голодуй». Може, хоч це її розворушить.
Поки що я просто намагаюся не вибухати. Готую, прибираю, але кожен раз, бачачи її бруднуАле одного разу я просто залишила її тарілку посеред столу, і коли вона знову прийшла до кухні, то зрозуміла, що більше ніхто не буде за неї прибирати — і тоді ж, нарешті, взяла губку в руки.
My Son and His Wife Gave Me a Flat as a Retirement Gift: The Day They Handed Me the Keys, Took Me to the Solicitor, and Transformed My Golden Years—Even Though I Tried to Refuse This Generous Surprise
My son and his wife gifted me a flat when I retired On the day it happened, my son and...
When My Husband Told Me I Was Boring, I Transformed My Life—But Then He Got Bored of Me Instead
Nearly two years ago, I heard something from my husband that Ill never be able to forget. He said, “You...
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
My Dearest One. A Story Sarah had found out, much to her disbelief, that shed grown up in a foster...
I Buy Premium Turkey Meat for Myself and Steam Healthy Cutlets, While He Gets Out-of-Date Pork: After 30 Years of Holding Our Family Together, I Refuse to Share the Good Food with My Lazy Husband
I buy finest British turkey breast for myself and steam up beautiful cutlets, while he gets the expired pork left...
For Five Years, Helena Thought She Was Married to Her Husband—But Realised She Wanted to Live with Him as if He Were Her Mum
For five years, she believed she was living with her husband, but only later did she realise shed been hoping...
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…
Annoying Neighbour Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight!...
One Day, I Spotted My Cheerful Sister in a Shop, Walking Hand in Hand with a Distinguished Gentleman—Both Wearing Wedding Rings
One day, I spotted my usually cheerful sister in the local shop, walking hand-in-hand with a distinguished-looking gentleman, both of...
My Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: A Brother’s Betrayal, a Mother’s Escape, and the Fight to Reclaim a Life Built on Trust, Not Manipulation
His Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace “Stop pretending youre a saint. Itll all work out. Women...