On Thursday evening, Nina sent me a list of containers. We needed six large ones, and as many small ones as I could find. Soon after, she asked if I could clear out the bottom shelf of the fridge—or even two shelves, to keep things organized later.
Nina is my husband’s cousin-aunt. On Saturday, her husband Boris would be turning sixty, and they had rented a small hall in a café for the celebration. By the time we were invited, I’d already arranged to meet two friends. We’d been coordinating this meet-up for a month, so I let everyone know I wouldn’t be making it to the birthday.
Oleg was going to the birthday by himself, bringing our joint gift. I promised I’d call Boris in the morning.
A week before the celebration, Nina asked if I could help out with the cold appetizers. She’ll bring the ingredients on Friday, and on Saturday I’ll slice up the rolls and arrange everything on her trays. The cafe allowed us to bring a few homemade dishes, and it wasn’t hard for me to make time that morning. I also promised to lend two oval serving dishes and a salad bowl—Oleg will pick them up after the party.
I called Nina, hoping maybe she’d mixed up who she wanted to ask. Instead, she was delighted to hear from me—she had so many details to finalize!
“After the anniversary party, we’ll come by your place so you can pack up the leftovers. We won’t stay long, just have some tea and a quick bite.”
I actually pulled the phone away from my ear. People were planning to eat for hours at the café, only to come to my place afterward for another snack. I always thought after a banquet everyone just loosened their belts and called it a night, but apparently they had more planned.
Meanwhile, Nina explained how perfectly everything was coming together. The hall is booked until eight, but it would feel awkward for everyone to leave that early. Our apartment is nearby, the kitchen is spacious, and we have a dishwasher. All that’s left is buying some tea and treats, since the cake at the café might be completely eaten.
I reminded her that I have my own guests. Nina replied she hadn’t forgotten, and that’s exactly why she’s sure: I’ll be at home anyway, so I won’t have to rush back just for them.
I asked how many people she planned on bringing. Nina counted twelve, then remembered Valentina and her husband. That made fourteen, but two more were still deciding. At least someone in this story was taking a moment to think things through.
“I’m hosting my own guests, and your party isn’t continuing at my house. Bring your containers to the café and take the leftovers with you.”
Nina took offense instantly. Apparently, I could’ve just helped out like family, but instead I was busy counting heads. What’s the harm if someone drops by for tea? It’s not like they’re asking me to open a restaurant.
I asked who she’d already told our address to. Turns out, almost everyone: just yesterday, Nina had informed the guests that after the café, they’d continue the evening at Oleg and his wife’s place. I wasn’t looped in on that chat, though—I was busy preparing anyway, so why bother me with trivial things?
I told her to inform everyone today that the invitation was canceled. Nina replied she didn’t have time to call that many people and ended the conversation.
Oleg came home about an hour later. When I asked him to talk, he smiled right away—he already knew, since Nina had called him. Judging from his face, our relative had shared a much friendlier version of the story, making it sound like I was refusing to even offer hot water to elderly guests.
I handed him my phone with the list of containers. My husband read it and suggested we not make a big deal: the guests could spend an hour here, then we’d pack everything into containers, put it in the fridge, and sort it out in the morning.
I asked him who he meant with this cheerful “we’ll sort it out.” On Sunday, Oleg was planning to be in the garage changing the tires. So, I’d be the one waking up surrounded by dirty dishes, feeling oh-so-glad our family was so big.
I explained that the issue wasn’t about the dishes. Fourteen people had been invited to our home without my consent, and now I was being asked to make room for them instead of my own guests. I agreed to help with the appetizers, but I never promised to host a continuation of the party.
Oleg sat across from me and just threw up his hands.
“So what am I supposed to do now, leave our guests out on the street? They’ve all already made plans to come over to our place.”
“Call Nina and tell her we’re not hosting. She should invite everyone to her place or make arrangements with a café—it’s her celebration, after all.”
My husband called our relative right in front of me. He spent about five minutes mostly listening, occasionally trying to get a word in. Then he asked why we couldn’t go to their place with Boris.
Turns out, Nina had already cleaned her home. After hosting fourteen people, she’d have to clean the floors all over again—and after the birthday, she would have no energy left.
Oleg looked at me. It seemed he finally realized: the floors after fourteen people won’t clean themselves, not at Nina’s and not at ours.
“I didn’t invite the guests here. We have other plans. After the café, go straight to your own place.”
Nina insisted that I take the phone, but my husband replied that she would hear the same answer from me.
By the end of the conversation, it was decided to continue the party at the birthday boy’s place. As it turns out, Boris himself didn’t mind. But Nina already knew who would be helping her once the guests left: since Oleg had ruined the convenient option, he’d at least have to carry the food and do the dishes.
On Friday, Nina brought over ingredients for appetizers. She also brought disposable trays to pack the food for transport. She decided to spare her own serving platters—otherwise, she’d spend ages hunting them down among everyone else’s dishes.
I looked at all our dishes set out on the table. Apparently, it’s too much trouble to find her serving ware, but mine is expected to magically find its way home.
Nina noticed my look and promised to return every last spoon. I grabbed some masking tape, wrote my last name and phone number on a few pieces, and stuck them underneath the dry dishes. Last time after a group party, I ended up with someone else’s identical salad bowl and spent a month searching for my own among friends. This time, I even took a photo of the whole set so Oleg would know exactly what to pick up.
Before she left, Nina asked if I’d cook a big pot of solyanka for Sunday. There would be leftover meats, and it would be a shame to waste them. They’d drop by around two—just in time for a nice lunch.
“I’m not planning to cook solyanka. And I’m not expecting anyone for lunch on Sunday, we have other plans.”
Turns out, it was much easier to give a short explanation than to list out all the things I had to do—Nina would have tried to bargain with me over every single one.
Saturday morning, I made the promised appetizers. Oleg delivered them along with our serving dishes, and I finally got to focus on my own plans for the evening. My friends and I were getting together to watch a comedy, order some pies, and have a good chat without having to yell over loud music.
Before the party started, Valentina—one of Nina’s friends—called. She wanted to know what time they should all come to my place afterward, and asked if they needed to buy bread.
Now they were even offering to buy bread. How generous: we provide the apartment and all the service, and all the guests bring is a loaf.
I told Valentina that I wasn’t hosting any afterparty, and after the café, everyone should head to Boris’s place. She was surprised, but didn’t get upset. She promised to let everyone at her table know.
I messaged Oleg to let him know that Nina hadn’t warned anyone. I asked him to make sure personally that the guests knew where to go. My husband replied saying he’d already talked with the birthday boy. Boris would tell the guests himself.
Our evening started at seven. The pies were hot, the comedy was hilarious, and the conversation quickly turned to how hard it is for adults to just get together these days. We laughed, talked over each other, and kept rewinding the movie because we kept missing funny parts while chatting. At least no one asked me to slice more ham for fourteen people.
Around nine, Oleg sent a photo of our serving dishes sitting in Nina’s kitchen. One oval platter was already about to be given to Valentina with the leftover roulade. My husband recognized it from the picture, checked the signature on the bottom, and transferred the food into a container. The platter was left to be washed, while Valentina headed off with her roulade.
He got home close to midnight. The ladies had left about ten minutes before him, and I was clearing three cups from the table.
Oleg put the clean dishes on the drying rack and told me how Nina spent the whole evening trying to sneak another bowl into his pile. He would finish one, reach for a towel, and two more would already be waiting in the sink.
“I told her I’d finish up the dishes and then leave. But she started peeling potatoes for tomorrow like I’d moved in for a whole week.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. My husband also smiled, though he looked pretty tired.
Then he asked me to cancel all the family lunches for Sunday. I told him no one had made plans with me for that day anyway, so there was nothing to cancel.
Oleg glanced at the three cups by the sink and offered to put them away himself. I agreed without hesitation. After all, I wasn’t about to interrupt someone perfecting a new skill.
In the morning, Nina messaged to say she still hadn’t had a chance to rest after the party. Below was a question about where to put the leftover meat roulade.
I forwarded her message to Oleg and went to have breakfast. He read it, thought for a moment, and replied, “We won’t be having lunch at home today.”
Then he suggested we go to a cafe together. I agreed and double-checked: we’re definitely not bringing any containers with us.