Bruno Mars — “Locked Out of Heaven”

Pelmeni.
Russian pelmeni.
And forgive me — did I already mention pelmeni?

This is not food.
This is an idea.
This is philosophy.
This is, honestly, almost a revolution wrapped in dough.
So.
I walked into the director’s office.
Like a rebel.
And like a responsible adult woman
with a very serious face.
— Jeff, hi.
Will you make me head of the kitchen?
I folded my hands in prayer.
Honestly.
No shame.
With absolute faith in a miracle.
— Nazokat…
— Oh come on, Jeff!
At least twice a week.
Purely symbolic.
Purely for the soul.
Purely so the kids don’t grow up feeling
that life is just one endless, scheduled Tuesday.
I looked up at him
and—
started whining,
like a small puppy
who really needs this,
who genuinely, desperately needs this,
and is about to die without pelmeni.
— Mmmmm…
He opened his mouth
to object.
— Okay, — I said quickly. —
Then plan B.
He froze.
Went still.
— What plan B?
The kids burst in.
In a group.
In sync.
Like a team of specially trained negotiators.
One.
Two.
And—
Faces — pleading.
Eyes — huge, wet, hinting at a life-defining tragedy.
Shoulders — slightly slumped,
like those who’ve already seen too much by the age of six.
The iPhone 17 is already out,
and they’re still on the 16.
That was it.
The director cracked.
I saw it.
He almost became human.
We all started whining.
At the same time.
In perfect sync.
Like a choir of desperate
but extremely persistent beings.
— Jeeeeeeeff…
— Pleeeeease…
— Puh-leeeeease…
He was melting.
I could see it.
His shoulders dropped slightly.
His gaze softened.
He was almost there.
And then—
like in slow motion—
That damn piece of paper.
A tiny, almost transparent slip
decided everything.
It slowly slid across the desk,
like a traitor,
like the final boss.
— Damn it…
On it —
a very clear message
from Killian’s father.
Damn.
The director snapped back instantly,
as if someone had splashed him with cold water.
Parents.
Important asses.
People with opinions,
schedules,
and the firm belief
that if their golden children
deviate from the plan
by even a millimeter —
the world will wobble.
And he remembered.
Responsibility.
Rules.
And “we can’t do that.”
His face went adult again.
Official.
Pelmeni-free.
— Nazokat, I can’t, — he said, pointing at the paper.
I immediately switched on understanding.
Full power.
— Of course, — I said.
— Of course, of course.
— We understand completely.
You can’t do things like that all at once.
So suddenly.
Without approvals.
Without coordination.
Without a sign.
Without a thirty-slide presentation titled
“Why Pelmeni Are Safe.”
Everyone nodded.
I nodded.
The kids nodded.
We understand.
We really do.
We don’t care at all.
But we nod.
Because that’s what adults do.
And I was desperately pretending to be one.
The kids watched me
and simply copied me.
And suddenly there were fifteen of us.
All nodding.
…
— Honey…
— Yeah?
— Can you help me?
Briefly.
Without drama.
Without presentations or evidence-based arguments,
I told Jonathan exactly what I wanted —
the way a chihuahua calls in a pitbull
when someone messes with her
or simply refuses to do what she says.
Ten minutes later,
Jonathan walked out of the director’s office.
And the director…
Just stood there.
Smiling.
All thirty-two teeth.
That exact smile of a man
for whom everything has suddenly fallen into place.
— Well, — he said, —
I suppose we can make some adjustments.
Imagine that.
So suddenly,
it wasn’t such an unsolvable problem after all.
I lit up.
Perfect.
There he is —
the great CFO.
— Jonathan, darling, you’re my hero, —
I said
and kissed him on the cheek.
— And where’s Nate? —
Aida asked.
My heart tightened.
For a second.
But I lifted my chin proudly.
— No idea.
Probably making out with Ferrari
or with those…
you know,
the race girls.
I waved my hand,
as if it were fog —
something you can simply
brush away.
— Can I go? —
Jonathan said.
— Of course.
Thank you.
He gave a brief nod.
I stood there thinking:
who would ever believe the world isn’t built for men?
It’s always a man’s world.
Only a man moves another man.
One stands up.
The other listens.
That’s it.
And thank God,
I have four of them.

The kitchen
Alright.
We were ready to cook.
The entire kitchen was quietly horrified.
Ahead of us — pelmeni.
The chef crossed himself
and prayed in French.
I drank wine.
The kids were fully prepared
to destroy civilization.
We began.
— Okay, Sebastian and Colin, please add the flour.
— Just don’t—
Too late.
They’d already grabbed the bag.
A big one.
And flipped it over in one clean move.
A cloud.
White.
Holy.
— Oh…
— Uh…
— Perfect, — I said, taking another sip of wine.
Which meant we were making
a large batch of pelmeni.
A very large one.
For an army.
Or for the soul.
— Girls, we need water. Water!
— Me!
— Me-me-me!
— I can!
Catherine ran for the ladle
like this was an Olympic event.
Water spilled.
Where — irrelevant.
What mattered was enthusiasm.
The chef was shaking.
The kitchen was worth a fortune.
I liked the tiles,
so they were flown in by helicopter
from a tiny village in Florence.
I smiled.
It really was an excellent choice.
I laughed.
God, the way Jonathan clenched his jaw back then.
Good thing I’m his favorite —
he won’t say no to me.
— Remember how Nate organized everything back then? — Mushu said.
I gave him a cold look.
Yeah.
Back then — sure.
And now God knows where he’s run off to.
I took another sip.
To hell with it.
Not now.
I don’t want to go there.
— A couple of eggs…
Jamie and Killian exchanged a look.
Silent.
Adult.
Two is funny.
Seven is confident.
They added seven.
— Uh…
Okay then.
So that’s how it’s going to be.
I laughed.
Took another sip of wine.
Shrugged.
Life rarely follows a recipe anyway.
— Guys…
They scream.
They jump.
The dough starts living its own life.
Flour everywhere —
in their hair,
on their faces,
in the air.
— GUUUUYS!
Everyone freezes.
A pause.
Silence.
And then I say:
— Should we turn some music on?
One second.
And then—
— YEEES!
— OKAY!
— YEEEEEEES!
— Alright… Dua Lipa?
The answer was unanimous.
No discussion.
No democracy.
A clear yes.
So we turned the music on.
Loud.
No compromises.
Dancing, singing along, losing the beat, bumping into each other,
we finally started cooking.
Not “by the recipe.”
By joy.
By the body.
Aida watched all of it
and slapped his palm against his forehead.
— Dear God… who let a former alcoholic and a psycho in here?
And this is supposed to be an elite kindergarten?
I laughed.
For real.
Wide.
— It’s not just an elite kindergarten, — I said. —
It’s the best kindergarten in the world.
And yes, I did rub my husband in his face back then.
Aida rolled his eyes, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it
like a man who already understood: resistance was useless.
I hooked my elbow around his neck —
casually, without aggression —
the way you grab an old friend.
— Oh, come on.
Relax.
Meanwhile, the dough…
or whatever vaguely resembled it,
started to rise.
Oh.
So it needed a little time to rest.
We were all filthy.
Covered in flour.
In eggs.
In water.
And God knows what else.
Happy.
Sticky.
Real.
And we spilled outside with the kids.
Just like that.
As we were.
I ruined an outrageously expensive dress.
All handmade.
Beautiful.
Um.
It was.
The Irish lace wasn’t lace anymore.
Dough stuck everywhere.
A couple of hairs — right in the flour.
An oil painting.
I didn’t care.
Not even a little.
The dress will wash.
The lace can be fixed.
Who cares about any of that
when you’re laughing,
when the kids are shrieking,
when the dough is rising,
and life, finally, isn’t asking permission?
That’s priceless.
Priceless.
So we went and lay down in the sand.
Among flowers and toys.
All around us — bears and Maine Coons.
A little farther — chickens.
And one donkey.
Calm.
Like he was the head keeper of meaning here.
— Yep. Just like Jonathan, — Mushu said.
Aida immediately started clowning.
He put on that signature stone face — empty eyes, zero emotion, total inner silence.
A perfect Jonathan impression in “I get everything, I feel nothing” mode.
He straightened up, chin slightly forward, shoulders squared, and spoke in a perfectly robotic voice:
— Am I clear to go?
Pause.
— If there are more commands, let me know.
Another pause, for effect.
— I’m going to recharge. Battery’s dying.
Aida high-fived Mushu.
And they laughed like idiots.
I grimaced
and kicked the couch
so they’d slide right off it
and choke on their poker faces.
The sun warmed us —
and the ground beneath us.
And at some point
the kids and I just fell asleep.
No decisions.
No agreements.
Just this warmth and calm
covering me completely —
little legs,
little arms,
plump bellies.
Warm.
Heavy.
Trusting.
That’s how we slept through lunch.
I woke up first.
As always, one thought in my head:
I want to write.
Badly.
The way you want to breathe
after you’ve been holding your breath too long.
But the kids’ weight had turned my muscles to stone.
A nightmare.
An absolute one.
I couldn’t move.
Every little shift felt like negotiating with my body.
So there I was, stumbling —
like I’d just come out of a battle —
in bits of dough,
in flour,
in grass,
wearing the marks of sleep and happiness…
And still —
head held high.
I’m the mother of nineteen children.
And I’m proud of that.
Hopping and bending —
from pain
or from laughter —
I crawled toward the house.
“Walking” is a generous word.
It was somewhere between a forced march
and a wounded soldier’s victory dance.
Thank God
The kitchen smelled incredible.
The chef and the staff had shaped a mountain of pelmeni.
All kinds.
Different ones.
Indecent shapes.
Crooked, round-bellied, proud.
Hilarious.
Next to them — compote.
And fresh rye rolls, still warm, with a crust that crackled under your fingers.
And the kitchen…
Spotless.
As if there had never been flour in anyone’s hair,
seven eggs instead of two,
or Dua Lipa blasting at full volume.
I walked up to the chef
and kissed him on the cheek.
— Thank you.
Then hugged him tightly.
— Yeah, — Aida drawled. —
You should probably write him a check.
He must’ve had some kind of episode
while they were scrubbing everything clean.
I shrugged.
— Honestly? That’s fair.
I love fun.
But cleaning is painfully boring.
Thank God
we’re rich.
Right outside, Connor stopped me.
— Hey.
I wasn’t really there.
I was in my head.
Inside a sentence that hadn’t been born yet.
— Nazokat.
— Ah… damn!
I grabbed my chest.
— Sorry… — he looked embarrassed. — I didn’t mean to startle you.
— It’s fine, — I waved it off. —
So how are things in the booger world?
He frowned.
Very seriously.
Like someone entrusted with an important mission.
— Honestly, not great.
One booger left the house…
and now all the nose hairs are searching for it.
— Ew.
That’s disgusting, — I grimaced, sincerely.
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly,
as if regretting the details.
I laughed.
— It’s okay.
I just need to change…
I glanced toward the garden.
Where we’d been sleeping.
Where the kids were still asleep.
— But I’m afraid they’ll wake up…
and I won’t be there.
Connor straightened up.
No theatrics.
He simply became solid.
— Put them on me.
He even gave a small salute, the way soldiers do.
I laughed.
Warmly.
Without tension.
— Okay.
And kissed him on the cheek.
Quick.
Friendly.
The way you thank someone for peace of mind.
God bless men.
Without them, I’d be lost.
Happy, humming under my breath,
I played around on the stairs —
like a singer on stage,
with the crowd somewhere out there screaming, shrieking, losing its mind,
and you’re no longer quite human,
just pure energy.
I ran to the bedroom.
And there — already inside —
Nate stopped me.
— Kitten…
— Hi, — I said,
and went cold instantly.
One move —
and I was already in the dressing room.
— Can I stay with you?
I narrowed my eyes.
Careful.
Scanning.
Right. No cheap whores here.
No cars that fold like tin cans.
He dropped his gaze.
— Baby, please…
He reached for me.
I pulled my hand back.
— Don’t.
— Kitten, don’t.
I softened —
but didn’t show it.
— Baby…
He stepped closer
and kissed me gently.
I didn’t resist.
This was Nate.
All strength.
All gravity.
And he was going to do what he’d already decided anyway.
— Fine.
But we’ll be with the kids.
I paused.
Just a second.
— I’m afraid that won’t be very interesting
for such an important ass.
Nate lowered his eyes.
No games.
No armor.
— Okay.
He held his hands out.
Slow.
Careful.
— Kitten… will you forgive me?
I squinted again.
— You’re not tearing your shirt open, shameless one?
He laughed.
— No.
— Nate…
I hesitated.
Nate tensed.
— Baby?
— Connor will be there.
And maybe someone else.
I don’t know.
But I’m friends with him.
He’s a good guy.
Nate nodded.
Controlled.
Well… you can see why he’d react,
Mushu muttered.
Last time you were “just friends,” you married his best friend.
— Exactly.
Not just anyone — his best friend.
Almost a brother.
Double betrayal.
— What?
Seriously?
— Yeah, sure, — Mushu scoffed.
— Enough.
I waved my hand.
— Shut up.
— Nate!
— Baby, I can’t help being jealous…
But I’ll try not to show it.
— Nate!
— I’ll shut this down at the root, — he said,
then lifted his hands in surrender.
I burst out laughing.
— You idiot…
He wrapped his arms around me
and kissed me lightly.
I bloomed.
Like someone had switched the light on inside.
— Kitten…
are you going to change now?
— Yeah.
And if I have time — I’ll take a shower.
He nodded.
And slowly started pulling off his shirt,
like he was saying goodbye to it forever.
— What are you doing?
— You said you’re going to take a shower.
I froze.
Brain stalled.
No idea what’s happening.
I shook my head.
— Damn it, Nate, talk properly!
Are you planning to go first or what?
Why are you undressing?
— No.
Pause.
He raised an eyebrow.
— Ohhh…
And that’s when it finally clicked.
— You idiot!
I grabbed a pillow and swung with all my strength —
whack!
He just laughed.
Picked me up easily, confidently,
and tossed me over his shoulder like a trophy.
— Alright, — he announced. —
Everyone’s showering.
I laughed, kicking my legs.
— Everyone’s showering! — he repeated. —
Everyone’s showering.