I’ve been married to Thomas for ten years now, and I genuinely respect and even love my mother-in-law, Margaret Anne. She’s kind, caring, always ready to help with the kids, or treat us to her famous Victoria sponge. But there’s one habit of hers I’ve never quite adjusted to—she always leaves a spoon stuck in the salad bowl! And not just resting there, but plunged right in, like a flag planted on a summit. At Easter, we’ll all gather around her big table again, and I’m already bracing myself for this culinary ritual. But honestly, these little quirks add charm to our family gatherings, and I can’t imagine life without these cosy moments.
Margaret Anne is impossible not to respect. When I first married Thomas, like any young bride, I was a bit wary of my mother-in-law. I’d heard friends’ stories about “monsters in cardigans” who criticise everything. But Margaret Anne was different. She welcomed me with a smile, taught me how to bake her renowned apple crumble, and never offered unsolicited advice. When our children, Lily and Oliver, were born, she became the best grandmother—playing with them, reading bedtime stories, and her secret stash of boiled sweets is legendary. I truly feel blessed to have her. But that spoon in the salad… it’s my personal nightmare.
It all started at the very first family dinner Thomas and I attended as an engaged couple. Margaret Anne had laid the table like a royal banquet: prawn cocktail, coronation chicken, roast beef with all the trimmings—everything perfect. Trying to be a gracious guest, I complimented the salads and reached for a serving. And there it was: a huge spoon sticking straight up from the potato salad, like a skyscraper in a city centre. I assumed it was accidental, so I gently pulled it out and set it aside. But five minutes later, Margaret Anne walked past and plunged it back in! “It’s easier this way, Emily—help yourself!” she said cheerfully. I nodded, but inside, I was baffled.
Since then, that spoon has haunted me. At every holiday—Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it reappears, an uninvited guest in every bowl. Sometimes it’s in the coleslaw, sometimes the Waldorf salad, and once even in a Mediterranean salad, where it looked utterly out of place among the feta and olives. I tried fighting it: removing the spoon, suggesting we plate the salads beforehand. But Margaret Anne won’t budge. “It’s tradition, Emily,” she insists. “We’ve always done it this way!” Thomas just laughs: “Mum, who does that anymore?” She retorts, “You young people don’t understand proper hospitality!”
Now, as Easter approaches, I can already picture the scene. Margaret Anne will be at the head of the table in her floral apron, beaming. There’ll be hot cross buns, roast lamb, and of course, her signature salads—each with its obligatory spoon. I’ve even joked with Thomas about gifting her a fancy spoon stand to curb the habit. But truthfully, it’s become part of our family lore. Our daughter Lily once drew a picture of Granny with a giant spoon in a salad bowl, and we all howled with laughter—Margaret Anne included.
Easter at her house is always an occasion. She gathers everyone: us, Thomas’s sister and her husband, cousins, even the neighbours. The table groans under the weight of food, enough to last a week. Margaret Anne fusses over everyone, piling plates high while sharing stories of her youth. I watch her and wonder how she does it—baking, decorating eggs, even challenging Oliver to an “egg-cracking battle.” Meanwhile, after an hour in the kitchen, I’m ready for a nap.
Last Easter, I tried helping in the kitchen, hoping to control the spoon situation. No luck. While I chopped veg, Margaret Anne was already arranging salads—each with its spoon. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she said proudly. I sighed and thought: fine, it’s her house, her rules. Besides, her cooking’s too good to fuss over a spoon. Maybe it’s not just a quirk but her way of showing care—a reminder to eat heartily. Thomas shrugged when I asked: “Mum thinks it makes people dive in faster. She feeds us like we’re starving.” And it’s true—no one leaves her table hungry, not even Oliver, who’s usually picky.
Now, as Easter nears, I’ve made peace with the spoon. It’s part of the tradition, like her stories about dyeing eggs with onion skins or Lily and Oliver bickering over whose egg is toughest. Thomas will wink as I discreetly remove the spoon, and I’ll feel a rush of warmth. Yes, Margaret Anne has her quirks, but she’s the heart of our family. I’m grateful our children have a grandmother who teaches them to embrace life’s little oddities—spoons and all.
Who knows? In a few years, I might start planting spoons in salads myself—in honour of Margaret Anne. For now, I’ll arrive with a smile, ready for another feast. And yes, for that spoon standing tall in the bowl, reminding me that her home is where we find warmth, laughter, and love—always served with an extra helping of peculiar charm.
