⏱ ~4 min reading
Wednesday was Mom's birthday. Marinka found out about it on Tuesday evening, when Dad whispered in her ear, like a conspirator:
— Shall we prepare a surprise for mom?
— What surprise?
— Lunch. We'll make it ourselves. Everything. From soup to dessert.
Marinka froze at the idea. Something blossomed inside her, the way it happens when someone entrusts you with something big and grown-up.
— What are we going to cook?
— What mom loves. Think.
Marinka thought all night. That is, she tried. But a quarter of an hour after her mother kissed her goodnight, Marinka fell asleep. But she still managed to come up with something: borscht. Because her mother loves borscht. And varenyki with cherries. And something sweet — a honey cake that her grandmother taught her mother to bake.
In the morning, Mom went to work — not knowing that she wouldn't be back for a regular dinner that evening. Dad saw her off as usual, kissed her on the door. Then he turned to Marinka and rubbed his hands.
— Shall we start?
Within an hour, the kitchen had turned into a laboratory. On the table lay beets, carrots, onions, potatoes, and a bunch of dill. In another pile were flour, cherries from a can, and sugar. Dad tied an apron to Marinka that reached her heels. Marinka stood on a stool near the table—the only way she could reach the work surface.
"The first one is beets. I'll cut them, you wash them.".
Marinka was cute. Cold water dripped from her fingers. The beet was heavy and round, like a small, round hedgehog.
Then dad showed me how to hold a knife correctly. Not like a pencil. Not like a spoon. And in a special way — with your fingers curled up so you don't cut yourself. Marinka tried it on a soft potato. She got one crooked slice, then another one that was more even.
— I'm cutting!
— Well done, cook.
The borscht took a long time to cook. The kitchen smelled of beets first, then onions, and then, when they put the roast on, a smell that made my mouth water.
After borscht, they made the dough for the dumplings. Marinka poured flour - so much on the table that Dad swept it up and laughed. The dough was soft, warm, as if alive. Marinka was learning to sculpt. Her fingers didn't quite obey - the first dumplings came out crooked, like little boats that sink.
— It's not scary. Krivenki are homemade. Not all of them are perfect for Mom's borscht, either.
The third one was already more even. The tenth one was almost like Dad's. On the twentieth one, Marinka got tired, but she didn't admit it - she just sat down on a stool a little lower.
They didn't bake a honey cake—dad said it was long and difficult. Instead, they made something simpler: apples in the oven, with honey and cinnamon. The smell of cinnamon apples is a special kind of magic. Marinka stood by the oven and watched through the glass as the apples gradually turned golden.
When my mother came home from work, the table was already set. The tablecloth was white, with embroidered poppies (grandmother's, from the closet). The plates were the best, festive ones. The napkins were folded into triangles. There was one candle, in the middle, not yet lit.
Mom went into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway.
"What... what is this?"
“Happy birthday,” Marinka said, her voice trembling a little with excitement.
Mom looked at the table. At the borscht steaming in the plate. At the plate of dumplings, on which sour cream slowly dripped in white paths. At the baked apples, which smelled of cinnamon throughout the house.
Then she looked at Marinka - in an apron to her heels, with flour on her cheek. At her father - in an apron with a teddy bear (an old one, from when Marinka was little).
Mom's eyes lit up — with that light that rarely appears, only in very good moments.
"Is that you?"
"Alone," said Dad. "All alone. Since ten in the morning.".
Mom hugged Marinka — really tight. Then she hugged Dad. Then Marinka again.
They ate for a long time. Mom praised every spoonful. Especially the dumplings — she said that only real cooks have such curves. Marinka ate little from happiness — her stomach was full of joy.
When the dishes were washed (both dad and Marinka washed them — mom wanted to help, but she wasn't allowed), mom sat Marinka on her lap.
— Do you know what the best gift was?
— Dumplings?
"Time. The fact that you spent all day thinking about me. That's more than any box from the store.".
Marinka leaned against her mother's shoulder. There was still a little flour on her cheek.
“Then we will give you time every year,” she said. “And Mom laughed—that laugh that sounds like a bell.”.
💡 The best gift is time.