“Guess what?” Marina gripped the gift bag so tightly the plastic emitted a pitiful crinkle. “You… you just…”
“Is there a problem?” Andrey barely glanced up from his laptop, his screen alive with graphs and data.
“Problem?!” She flung the bag onto the sofa. “Your mom appeared yesterday wearing a mink coat worth two hundred grand—a present from her darling son! And for me…” Extracting a ladle from the bag, she held it up, “THIS?!”
Outside, a thick January snow blanketed the city. The streets were quiet post-New Year’s Eve, with only the occasional car navigating the frosty roads.
“Marin…”
“Stop,” she cut him off sharply, “just stop! Can’t you see how this will play out with your mother?” Marina’s face twisted as she mimicked her mother-in-law’s pretentious tone, “‘Oh, my dear Andryusha is so thoughtful! He got me a mink coat! And what did yours get you? A ladle?'” Frustrated, she shoved the ladle back into the bag. “You know what? I’m heading to Lenka’s. Right now.”
“In this snowstorm?”
“Even if it were a cyclone!” Marina angrily yanked on her boots. “If I stay here any longer…” She stormed out, leaving her sentence hanging in the cold air.
The biting wind slapped her face with icy snow. Marina trudged forward, head bowed against the gusts. It was a twenty-minute trek to her friend’s place—enough time to let her anger simmer down.
Her phone buzzed—Andrey calling. Marina quickly silenced it. Enough was enough for one day.
After a slight delay, Lenka opened the door. Marina’s usually neat friend looked disheveled, evidence of a raucous New Year’s celebration.
“Why venture out in this mess?” Lenka yawned, welcoming Marina inside.
“Andrey…”
“Now what?” Lenka fetched tea and cookies, prepared for a long chat after a decade of friendship. “What’s happened this time?”
“He gifted me a ladle! Just a ladle!” Marina collapsed onto the kitchen couch. “And to his mother—a lavish mink coat!”
“That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Marina slammed her hand on the table. “Imagine how I look now? His mom’s probably told everyone about the coat, bragging, ‘Andryushenka gave it, such a doting son!’” She mimicked again, her tone bitter. “Now when she hears about my gift, just wait…”
“There might be more to that ladle?” Lenka suggested, stirring her tea thoughtfully.
“What else could it be?” Marina scoffed. “A guide on how to use it? ‘Dear wife, maybe spend more time in the kitchen?'”
“It’s not always that straightforward,” her friend replied slowly.
“Simple?!” Marina stood, pacing the cramped kitchen. “We’ve been married a decade! And his mother, she’s alone, sure, she needs attention. But two hundred thousand on a coat while we struggle since he left his job?”
Lenka offered her a cup of tea and tissues as Marina’s tears began to fall.
“What hurts the most?” Marina sobbed loudly. “I was so supportive when he started that cooking blog. I thought, let him stay home, cook, film it… He loved it. And now? All our savings on that coat, and for me…”
“Listen,” Lenka cut in. “How many followers does his blog have now?”
“I haven’t looked in ages,” Marina dismissed with a wave. “I’ve been overwhelmed with work…”
“Maybe that was the better choice?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Consider the guy upstairs, the one who also began with a food blog? Now he’s got his own cooking show.”
“How does that relate?” Marina massaged her forehead, exhausted. “Fine, I’ll leave. It’s not like anything will change.”
“Out there, in this weather?” her friend exclaimed, concerned. “Why not stay over?”
“No, I need to be alone. Maybe I’ll break a few plates…”
Her journey home felt interminable. The wind spitefully whipped sharp snowflakes against her face, sneaked down her collar, and wailed in her ears like a famished wolf. Marina pressed on, fighting back her tears.
Her apartment greeted her with darkness and silence. Flipping the light switch, she found nobody home. On the kitchen counter lay a cold cup of tea beside an open laptop displaying charts and comments in another language.
She ignored the “gift” bag tossed onto the couch and headed to her bedroom. The festive lights they’d hung before New Year’s blinked mournfully. Memories of Andrey being so thoughtful, finding her cherished unicorn ornaments—believed lost in a move—flooded back. She shook her head to dismiss these thoughts.
Her phone buzzed. Andrey again. “I won’t pick up. I refuse!”
She paced restlessly, turned on the TV only to turn it off again, boiled water that she then ignored, picked up her favorite book but quickly tossed it aside.
Her eyes kept darting back to the bag on the sofa.
“Could Lenka be right? Could there be something in there?” The thought nagged at her.
“No way!” she voiced firmly. “You won’t manipulate me!”
Then, a knock at the door. It was Vera Petrovna, the neighborhood busybody.
“Marinochka! Happy New Year!” she greeted cheerily, holding out some pies. Lowering her voice, she added, “Did you hear about Andrey?”
“What about him?” Marina’s muscles tensed.
“I mean…” Vera hesitated. “Was he on TV?”
“Where did you see him?”
“What do you mean where? On the cooking channel! I just caught it yesterday. It was really engaging…”
“Vera Petrovna,” Marina interjected, weary, “you’re mistaken. Andrey just has a blog. It’s just for fun.”
“Oh?” Vera seemed let down. “I thought… Well, after he bought that fancy coat…”
“Goodbye, Vera Petrovna!” Marina ended the conversation abruptly, shutting the door in her face.
“Now the rumors start! The whole building must be buzzing…”
She collapsed onto the sofa. The bag rustled tauntingly.
“No! I refuse to look! I won’t!”
Outside, the storm continued to howl. In the distance, the remnants of New Year’s fireworks popped sporadically. Marina sat in the dark, clutching her knees, wondering where it all went wrong.
Last New Year’s, they couldn’t afford a night out. Andrey had just left his office job, fed up with the daily grind. She had encouraged him then, to chase his culinary dreams. His excitement for the blog had been palpable…
A noise at the door, then the click of the lock.
“He’s back…” her heart fluttered.
“Marish, are you here?” Andrey’s voice sounded off, filled with anxiety.
She stared silently out the dark window, her expression unreadable.
“Turn on the TV,” her mother-in-law said as she entered the room, noticeably without her usual fur coat. “Channel twenty-one.”
“I’d rather not,” Marina retorted sharply. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Just turn it on,” her mother-in-law insisted with a seriousness that was uncharacteristic. “Do you really think I would be part of something trivial?”
Despite her doubts, Marina reached for the remote. The TV flickered to life, revealing the opening scene of a well-known cooking show. Then, a familiar face appeared.
“That’s…” she gasped.
“Your husband,” her mother-in-law confirmed, a hint of pride in her voice. “Who you thought ‘just runs a blog.'”
Andrey was there on the screen, expertly orchestrating a team of chefs. The camera panned over an excited audience and a queue of people eager for a taste.
“It’s a teaser. The full show airs tomorrow,” Andrey explained, perching on the arm of her chair. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“Remember the apple dumpling recipe from your grandmother? The one with the secret ingredient?”
“The one you’ve been pestering me about?” Marina’s irritation softened into a reluctant smile. Andrey had spent weeks trying to coax the recipe from her.
“I tweaked it a little. Added your favorite spices. And guess what?”
“What?”
“It won a competition. ‘Modern Takes on Traditional Recipes.’ The grand prize—a deal with a cooking channel and…”
“And what?” Marina’s pulse quickened.
“Check the ladle.”
“Not that ladle joke again!” she snapped.
“Marina Sergeyevna!” her mother-in-law interjected, her tone suddenly firm. “Enough with your stubbornness! I’ve held my tongue for ten years, but now I must speak. You are just so… so…”
“So what?”
“Difficult! Stubborn! Just like me,” she added with a surprising chuckle. “Do you think I lasted forty years with your father-in-law by being inflexible? Sometimes you need to listen! Just look in the ladle!”
Taken aback by her mother-in-law’s commanding tone—more akin to a field marshal than her usual self—Marina reluctantly agreed.
“Alright, let’s see this famous ladle then.”
She pulled it from the bag with exaggerated slowness. A plain white envelope slipped out, sealed and inscribed in Andrey’s elaborate script: “To my most beloved and stubborn wife.”
“May I open this myself?” she asked dryly. “Or are there more instructions?”
Andrey simply nodded, while his televised counterpart continued engaging the captivated audience.
Inside the envelope, Marina found two tickets. “A Culinary Tour of Traditional Family Restaurants” announced the vibrant brochure within.
“This…” She was at a loss for words.
“The grand prize,” Andrey smiled warmly. “Part of it, anyway. A tour for two and a one-year contract to host a series on family recipes worldwide. It all began with your apple dumplings.”
“And the fur coat?”
“About that,” her mother-in-law stepped in decisively, “it’s fake—high-quality faux fur. I’ve been an animal rights advocate for years, remember? We needed a way to keep you distracted…”
“Distracted?”
“From realizing that Andrey was away filming for the past three months. From knowing that your mother was almost bursting trying to keep it all secret—it was she who told the channel your dumpling story. From the fact that…”
She was interrupted by the doorbell.
Marina’s mother stood on the doorstep, cheeks rosy from the cold, carrying a large bag that wafted the sweet aroma of fresh pastries.
“Did you marvel at your mother-in-law’s coat today?” she began without preamble. “I thought you’d catch on quicker! But you held out all day.”
“Mom?! You were in on this too?”
“Absolutely!” Her mother breezed past her into the kitchen. “Who do you think scoured the city for that faux fur? It had to look genuine! Elena almost lost her mind trying to convince everyone it was mink!”
“And you…” Marina turned to her husband. “Why didn’t you tell me about the show? The contest?”
“I knew you’d ask how we could afford the coat,” Andrey replied with a grin. “And you’d have figured everything out. I wanted it to be a surprise. Remember how you’ve always dreamed of experiencing authentic Italian cuisine?”
His voice softened, causing Marina’s eyes to well up.
“And the ladle? Why that?” she choked out.
“Because that’s where our story began!” her mother added. “You always told the tale—when you two first cooked together. You complained about how the ladle was uncomfortable…”
“‘Once I’m married, I’ll get a proper one!'” her mother-in-law recited with a smile. “We never forgot that. And then, life just went on…”
Marina looked down at the ladle now in her hands—a simple, sturdy steel one with a comfortable grip, just as she had once wished for.
“My goodness,” she whispered. “What was I thinking…”
“Stubborn?” suggested her mother-in-law gently.
“Difficult?” her mother added with a smile.
“Unobservant,” Andrey corrected, shaking his head. “You haven’t checked my blog in three months. I’ve been starting every post with ‘Thanks to my wife…'”
“Wait!” Marina remembered something Vera Petrovna had said. “What about the show on TV yesterday?”
“That was a sneak peek,” Andrey confessed sheepishly. “The network started promoting early. Now everyone in our building knows…”
“And they should!” her mother declared proudly. “Time to stop being so modest. By the way, did you even look inside the ladle?”
“Is there something else?”
“Take another look.”
Marina dug deeper into the bag beneath the ladle, her fingers finding a key with a bright red keychain.
“This…” she looked up at Andrey, bewildered.
“It’s for the red Honda you’ve been eyeing,” he nodded. “The TV deal pays well. And the funniest part?”
“What’s that?”
“I nearly ruined the surprise with those ‘Best Chef’ fridge magnets. Planned to hide them in the ladle. But when your mother saw…”
“She scolded me!” her mother laughed. “Imagine, after ten years of marriage, he’s still playing pranks.”
“How else to keep up with such a determined wife?” her mother-in-law added, chuckling. “You should have seen your expression when I showed up in that ‘mink’ coat!”
Marina’s eyes moved from the ladle to the key, and then to the travel tickets. On the TV, Andrey was concluding his show with a familiar line:
“Remember, the real secret of any dish isn’t in the recipe. It’s in the love with which it’s made. Thanks to my wife, who taught me that.”
“And there’s more,” Andrey said, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Remember that little trattoria we found online and dreamt of visiting in Italy? I reached out to the owner. He’s eager to share his signature pasta technique with us—keeps mixing up those apple dumplings with ravioli.”
“Oh, Andrey…”
“What?”
“I think I owe you an apology for my earlier outburst.”
“No need,” he pulled her closer. “Just promise me next time…”
“What?”
“That you’ll occasionally check my blog!”