⏱ ~4 min reading
On Sundays, Ivankov's family had a special ritual. Lunch was shared. Everyone at the table. No rush. No phones — mom would collect them in a wicker basket at the entrance to the kitchen like mushrooms. Anyone who wanted to make a call or check messages would go out of the kitchen into the hallway. On the table — only plates and people.
My grandmother came up with this ritual when my mother was little. My grandmother used to say, "The table is not a place for screens. The table is a place for the eyes.".
Ivanko knew how to set the table. Mom taught him last summer. First - napkins. Then - plates. Then - forks and knives. Fork on the left, knife on the right, blade to the plate. Spoon above the plate. Glass on the right side - where the knife is.
— Ivanka, how many of us are you today?
Ivanko counted in his head. Dad, mom, Ivanko himself. Grandma will come with grandpa — that's one and two. Aunt Olesya with little Tymko — two more. In total — six adults and two children.
— Eight.
— We still need a small chair — for Timko.
Ivanko went to the pantry. He brought out a small chair with a cushion. He placed it next to his aunt's place.
In the kitchen, my mother was already finishing the borscht. Meat and potatoes were stewing in a frying pan. Fish was baking in the oven—my mother liked to bake fish with lemon and thin slices of onion. The croup was already sliced on the board—green, thin, like grass.
Twenty minutes later, they started arriving. The first were Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma brought freshly baked bread in a towel—her bread was special, with caraway seeds. Grandpa brought a bottle of homemade cherry compote.
"Ivanka, swallow!" the grandmother hugged her. "And you're already the owner, I see.".
— I set the table.
"Well done. Let me see. Yes, yes, fork on the left. Yes, yes, knife blade to the plate. Exactly. Who taught you that?"
— Mom.
— And I am your mother.
Grandma smiled. She placed the bread on a wooden board in the middle of the table.
Aunt Olesya and Tymko arrived a little later. Tymko was still small — about as big as Ivanko's shoulder. Tymko immediately ran to Ivanko.
— Ivan, I brought you a stone!
— Which one?
"From our yard. It's shiny. Look.".
The stone was ordinary — with sparkling veins of quartz. But for Tymko, it was a treasure.
When everyone was seated, Mom looked at the basket by the entrance.
— Telephones?
Dad got up and put his down. Aunt Olesya put hers down. Grandpa didn't carry a phone at all—he had an old push-button one lying around at home. Grandma also put down her small one, with big numbers.
The basket is full.
Mom brought borscht. A large pot — real, ceramic, with a heavy lid. She placed it in the middle of the table. Steam rose in the air — beetroot, warm, with a hint of garlic and bay leaves.
Grandpa started pouring — into each person's plate. First — for grandma. Then — for aunt. Then — for mom. Then — for himself and dad. For the children — Ivanka and Tymkov — mom herself.
We ate slowly. We talked. Grandma told me how she went to the market today and met Zoya, an old friend. Aunt Olesya told me about a new project at work. Dad told me about the car he wanted to fix in the garage. Mom told me about an article she had read.
Ivanko listened. Sometimes he talked himself - about school, about his friend Sasha, about the new drawing. Timko chewed and looked at everyone with wide eyes.
When the borscht was finished, my mother served baked fish and potatoes. Then — cabbage salad with sour cream. Then — compote.
They ate for a long time. No longer out of hunger, but out of pleasure. The conversations flowed smoothly from one topic to another. Grandpa told stories that Ivanko had heard many times before—but he listened anyway, because Grandpa told them a little differently each time.
The compote was finished. Mom brought dessert—an apple pie that Grandma had brought before dinner, covered with a towel. Grandma's pie smelled of cinnamon and honey.
"And I," said Ivanko with a full mouth, "love our Sunday dinners the most.".
Everyone laughed. Grandma patted Ivanko on the head.
— Why, swallow?
— Because… everyone is together. And no one is running anywhere. And they listen to each other.
Grandpa nodded. Seriously.
“Little one,” he said, “you have understood something very important.”.
When everyone was leaving — and it was already late in the evening — Ivanko went out into the hallway with his aunt and Tymko. He took his phone from the basket. He looked at it — at the black screen, on which nothing had happened for half a day.
Then he put it back. He thought. And he said to his mother:
"Can we let him lie here until tomorrow?"
Mom smiled.
"You can, swallow. He'll wait for you.".
💡 The table is love on a plate.