A Week of Sausage: When My MotherinLaw Monitors Our Servings
How Much Sausage for the WeekHow My MotherinLaw Counts Our Bites
It was July when Hélène Lucienne was scrubbing the windows, shaking out the cushions and reminding her daughter that the garlic was ready for harvest. Élodie tried to justify herself: work, obligations, the kids But her mother, as unyielding as ever, would not budge.
The summer is ending and youre still cooped up in your Paris flat! she snapped over the phone. The strawberries will spoil, the potatoes will turn green, and youre glued to your phones!
At last they agreed on a weekend visit, partly to help in the garden and partly to enjoy a quiet evening.
Alexandre had no desire to make the trip. Their last stay had ended badly, leaving a sour taste. He had simply asked for a bit of sausage to go with the couscousonly to be flatout denied by his motherinlaw. The refusal left him speechless.
On Saturday they left early. They worked efficiently: the garlic was pulled, sorted, and stored. The night, the dinner, and the family chatter were still to come. Alexandre showered and then entered the kitchen while Élodie and her mother set the table. The aroma of couscous filled the room. To kill time, he opened the fridge, grabbed a few slices of sausage for a sandwichwhen suddenly
Dont touch that! Hélène Luciennes voice crackled like a gunshot.
The sausage was thrust back into the fridge. Alexandre froze, stunned.
Whats happening, Mom? Élodie asked, bewildered.
The sausage is for breakfast, with bread! Not now. And dont spoil your appetite! the motherinlaw snapped.
Alexandre tasted the couscous, but found no meat in it. He asked again for a bit of sausage. Another denial.
Why this obsession? Hélène Lucienne exclaimed. Youve already eaten half! Do you know how much it costs? Its supposed to last the whole week!
He pushed his plate away. With his appetite gone, he stepped outside, lay on the garden sofa, staring at the ceiling. Élodie joined him later.
Im going back inside. I cant stand this vibe. Every move is watched, as if I were a thief. Im even afraid to butter my toast too much, lest she snatch it from my hands.
There isnt even a grocery store here, Élodie murmured, embarrassed. Just the produce truck on Wednesdays.
We should have brought food instead of cherries and apricots, Alexandre muttered. Im leaving tomorrow. Ill pick you up later, because without meat I wont last long.
Well leave together, Élodie declared firmly.
The next morning they drove back to Paris. Élodie told her mother a fabricated work emergency for Alexandre. Hélène Lucienne watched them go, her gaze dark.
A year passed without them setting foot in Hélène Luciennes house. She, however, visited them freely, and strangely she would open their fridge as if it were her own, taking whatever she wanted without asking. Alexandre even laughed:
Look, the sausage! Apparently it has full rights here
In spring the calls started again:
So, when are you coming? The garden wont wait.
Alexandre resisted until Élodie suggested a trick:
Lets bring supplies. That way Mom cant count our portions.
He agreedon the condition they detour to the supermarket. Soon they were back in front of the country house, arms loaded with bags.
What is this now? Apricots? Hélène Lucienne said, lips pursed. Digging through the bags she uncovered cheese, meat, sausage, and fell silent.
Now you wont have to calculate how many grams I eat, Alexandre joked.
Hélène Lucienne made a faint disdainful sound but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she whispered to Élodie:
It would be nice if you always brought provisions. Simpler for me, easier for you.
Élodie nodded, part annoyed, part amused. The point was clear: Alexandre was ready to return, this time with groceries, without arguments or accusations. And, upon reflection, that turned out to be a kind of family happiness.
A Week of Sausages: When My Mother-in-Law Critiques Our Servings
