It has been ten years since I married Edward, and I hold my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, in genuine regard and even affection. She is kind, caring, always ready to lend a hand with the children or treat us to her famous steak-and-kidney pies. Yet, there is one habit of hers I’ve never quite grown accustomed to—she insists on leaving the serving spoon stuck right in the middle of the salad bowl, like a flag planted on a mountaintop. As Easter approaches and we gather around her grand table once more, I brace myself for this culinary ritual. But truth be told, these little quirks add charm to our family gatherings, and I cannot imagine our lives without these warm reunions.
Margaret Elizabeth is a woman impossible not to admire. When I first married Edward, I, like any new bride, harboured some trepidation about my mother-in-law. I’d heard tales from friends of “monsters in aprons” who critiqued everything. But Margaret was different. She welcomed me with a smile, taught me to bake her renowned treacle tart, and never intruded with unsolicited advice. When our children, Emily and Oliver, were born, she became the finest grandmother—playing with them, reading bedtime stories, and her secret stash of liquorice allsorts was legendary. I truly consider myself fortunate. But that spoon in the salad… that is my personal nightmare.
It all began at our very first family dinner, when Edward and I were still engaged. Margaret had laid out a feast fit for royalty—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, coleslaw, and more. Eager to be a gracious guest, I complimented the spread and reached for the coleslaw. And there it was: a large spoon, standing upright in the centre like a spire on a cathedral. Thinking it a mere oversight, I carefully pulled it out and laid it aside. Five minutes later, Margaret circled back and plunged it right back in! “It’s handier that way, Charlotte—help yourself!” she beamed. I nodded politely, but inwardly, I was mortified.
Since then, that spoon has haunted me. At every celebration—Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it reappears, an uninvited guest in every salad. Sometimes it’s coleslaw, sometimes Waldorf, and once, bafflingly, in a Greek salad, glaringly out of place among the feta and olives. I’ve tried resistance: removing the spoon, placing it on a napkin, suggesting we serve portions in advance. But Margaret is unmoved. “Charlotte, it’s tradition,” she insists. “We’ve always done it this way!” Edward only chuckles. “Mum, who sticks spoons in salad these days?” To which she retorts, “You young people know nothing of proper hospitality!”
Now, as Easter looms, I can already picture the scene. Margaret will preside at the head of the table, resplendent in her Sunday best, her smile as bright as the spring sunshine. Before us will be hot cross buns, roast lamb, and, inevitably, her signature salads—each bearing its spoon like a tiny standard. I’ve joked with Edward about gifting her a spoon stand to break the habit. But in truth, it’s become part of our family lore. Our Emily once drew a picture of Margaret brandishing a giant spoon over a salad bowl—and we all roared with laughter, Margaret included.
Easter at my mother-in-law’s is an occasion. She gathers the whole clan—us and the children, Edward’s sister and her husband, cousins, even neighbours. The table groans under the weight of dishes enough to feed an army. Margaret bustles about, urging second helpings, regaling us with tales of her youth. I watch her and wonder: where does she find the energy? She bakes, she decorates, she even challenges Oliver to an egg-cracking contest—while I collapse after a single afternoon of cooking, dreaming of nothing but the sofa and a cuppa.
Last Easter, I attempted to assist in the kitchen, hoping to curb the spoon situation. No such luck. While I chopped vegetables, Margaret arranged the salads—and, naturally, planted a spoon in each. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she mused, admiring her handiwork. I sighed and surrendered. After all, her house, her rules. I resolved simply to enjoy her cooking and ignore these edible flagpoles.
Sometimes I wonder—is that spoon more than a habit? Perhaps, to Margaret, it’s a symbol of care, a way to say, “Eat hearty.” I asked Edward once where it came from. He shrugged. “Mum thinks it encourages guests to dive in. She feeds people like they’re famine survivors.” And it’s true—no one leaves her table hungry. Even Oliver, our picky eater, devours her shepherd’s pie with gusto.
Now, as Easter nears, I’ve made peace with the spoon. It’s tradition—omit it, and the day would feel incomplete. I can see us now: Margaret recounting how she dyed eggs with onion skins, Emily and Oliver debating whose egg is toughest, Edward shooting me a wink as I discreetly extract the spoon. And you know? The thought warms me. Yes, Margaret has her quirks, but she’s the heart of this family. I’m glad my children have a grandmother who teaches them not just to eat salad with a standing spoon, but to embrace life with joy.
Perhaps, in a few years, I’ll find myself planting spoons in salads—in Margaret’s honour. For now, I arrive at Easter with good cheer, ready for another feast. And yes, for that spoon, jutting from the bowl like a beacon, reminding me that my mother-in-law’s home is where I’ll always find warmth, good food, and a dash of the absurd.
