Poppy seeds

'Mommy, what are these?'

'Poppy seeds'

'Poppy seeds! You know what happens if you eat too much poppy seeds!'



My teenager boys.

Brother-in-law paid a visit. They are nice people to talk with. As his wife entered the ancestry first, she has been the matron to all of us new comers. It is obvious she finds it very hard with me. Tenderly mocking my children, openly praising hers, upbringing her achievements, nonchalanting mine.

I talked to her husband then. About the books he might have read, the books he should absolutely read ‘I will get it to you, it is a master piece picture of war that book!’. Talking about flying which she is scared, talking about other languages which she cannot speak.

I am not proud of myself, but couldn’t help. See, I respect no matrons.

I made a reconcilement cake for them. Poppy seed mascarpone strawberry cake.

Yesterday they, us and 19 other people gathered around our table to eat that cake. After the dinner of course.

She said nothing. Not a slightly positive comment we know as small talk or human interaction. Not a word.

Maybe she could not stand the raw-cut style to finish the cake.

Hard way vs. easy way.

Rural vs. cities.

Resentment vs. forgiving.