Sing to me

That same borscht

      This was the first morning for Steve and Anka after defeating all their enemies. Finally, all the adversaries were vanquished, the aliens no longer flew to Earth, and the people themselves had recovered from the life-saving snap of Tony Stark, may he rest in peace, and his memory will be eternal.       Steve and Anka rented a small apartment in Brooklyn and just finished unpacking yesterday. Tomorrow all their friends will come to their house — they will celebrate the housewarming. And today, they could rest. Dedicate time to themselves and finally luxuriate in bed until noon.       At least that's what Anka thought, sweetly stretching under the covers and yawning.       "Are you awake already?" Steve entered the room in a patterned apron, a wooden spoon in his hand, and a twinkle in his eye.       "Well, yes," the girl said uncertainly, peeking out from under the covers and skeptically surveying Captain from head to toe. "What's up, love?"       "We have a morning date," the man proudly announced.       "Really?"       "Yes. We are going to have borscht. Your national dish."       "Borscht?" Anka's eyebrows shot up in surprise.       It seems that after all the battles, Captain decided to become not only the strongest and fairest fighter for freedom, but also the best guy in the world.       "Yes," Steve nodded and smiled innocently, "the very borscht you told me about. I found the recipe online, so get up. I've almost finished, but I still need your help.”       Intrigued, Anka quickly got up from bed, threw on a silk bathrobe, and hurried to the kitchen behind the satisfied Captain.       And there was complete and real chaos in the kitchen. The girl had the impression that on these twenty square meters, a fierce battle was raging between Steve and the ingredients for making borscht.       She was shocked, slowly surveying the kitchen with a perplexed look. Spots from spilled broth were visible here and there, vegetables required for making the soup and not, practically occupied all the free surfaces, and half of the poor beet had even rolled under the bar counter and now lay lonely at one of the kitchen legs. The remnants of meat and incompletely sliced bread lay on the microwave (why did he put them in there at all?!) and in a deep bowl next to a pile of dirty dishes.       Looking down at her feet, Anka was surprised to see splatters from spilled grains and flour (where did they come from?!).       It seemed that Captain didn't know that instead of cleaning robots, there were only four hands, a rag, and a broom.       And only the evenly bubbling red liquid in a small saucepan added a peaceful touch to the entire picture.       "Here, look," Steve distracted Anka from contemplating the mess and, giving her a peck on the cheek, approached the table. "I wanted to buy sour cream, but I didn't know which one you would like, after all, you didn't have a favorite.”       Brushing away the bread crumbs, he pushed three different jars to the edge and pointed to the first one with a serious look:       "This one is French, it's called crème fraîche, it's more liquid and, in my opinion, tastes like yogurt. And here," he said, pointing to the next bluish jar, "it’s German. It seems to taste similar, but I'm bothered by the fact that its consistency is like processed cheese. I don’t know if German sour cream will dissolve in the soup. And here is the Polish one, but it's not fatty enough."       He said this with such an important and serious look that Anka couldn’t help but smile.       So what if there was chaos in the kitchen? So what if they couldn't rest today, and the next few hours would be spent cleaning? But Steve is happy. He stands there, smiling and wiping his wet hands on the apron, which, oddly enough, suits him. Finally, there is no heavy shield over his shoulders, and no signs of weariness in his eyes.       He got up early today, went to the market and the store, all to make Anka happy. To do something nice for her - to cook her favorite dish, which she hadn't had in a long time.       "So, what do you say?" Captain asked again, looking expectantly at his beloved. "Which sour cream do you want to add to the borscht? It's almost ready." And it was true. The warm and sweet aroma of that very borscht that her mother used to make for her in childhood was already filling the kitchen.       "I don't know," Anka shrugged and approached Steve, "let's just mix all three!"       "Okay!" Rogers agreed willingly, and the girl laughed. Her Captain was too sweet at that moment.       "I love you," she said and hugged the man, "my little chef. Thank you."       "Don't mention it. I love you too, my warrior."