For ten years now, I’ve been married to Edward, and my mother-in-law, Margaret Anne, is someone I truly respect and even love. She’s kind, caring, always ready to help with the children or treat us to her famous Victoria sponge. But there’s one habit of hers I’ve never quite adjusted to—she insists on leaving a serving spoon stuck upright in the salad bowl, like a flag planted on a hill! At Easter, we’ll gather around her big table again, and I’m already bracing myself for this culinary ritual. Yet, if I’m honest, these little quirks only add charm to our family gatherings, and I can’t imagine life without these warm reunions.
Margaret Anne is a woman impossible not to admire. When I first married Edward, I was nervous about my mother-in-law, as any new bride might be. I’d heard friends’ tales of “monsters in pearls” who criticise everything. But Margaret Anne was different. She welcomed me with a smile, taught me to bake her renowned treacle tart, and never offered unsolicited advice. When our children, Emily and Thomas, were born, she became the most devoted grandmother—reading them stories, spoiling them with sweets from her secret stash. I count myself lucky to have her. But that spoon in the salad… that’s my personal nightmare.
It all began at our first family dinner, when Edward and I were still engaged. Margaret Anne had laid the table like a royal banquet: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, a towering trifle—everything perfect. Trying to be polite, I complimented the spread and reached for the salad. And there it was: a serving spoon jammed straight into the bowl of coleslaw, standing tall like a lighthouse. Thinking it an accident, I discreetly pulled it out and set it aside. Yet five minutes later, Margaret Anne breezed past and plunged it right back in! “It’s easier this way, Charlotte—help yourself!” she said cheerfully. I nodded, but inside, I was reeling.
Since then, that spoon has haunted me. At every gathering—Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it appears, an uninvited guest in every dish. Sometimes it’s the potato salad, other times the beetroot, once even the Greek salad, where it looked wildly out of place among the olives and feta. I’ve tried resisting—removing it, offering to plate the salads in advance—but Margaret Anne won’t budge. “Charlotte, it’s tradition,” she insists. “We’ve always done it this way!” Edward just laughs. “Mum, who sticks spoons in salads anymore?” She shoots back, “You young people don’t understand proper hosting!”
Now, as Easter approaches, I can already picture the scene. Margaret Anne will preside 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 stubborn spoon. I’ve joked with Edward that we should buy her a fancy spoon stand—anything to stop the jabbing. But truthfully, the habit’s become part of our family lore. Our Emily once drew a picture of Granny with a giant spoon in a bowl, and we all roared with laughter—Margaret Anne included.
Easter at hers is always an event. The whole clan gathers: us, Edward’s sister and her husband, cousins, even the neighbours. The table groans under platters of food, enough to last a fortnight. Margaret Anne flits about, refilling plates, sharing tales of her youth. I marvel at her energy—how she bakes, decorates eggs, and still finds time to challenge Thomas to an egg-cracking duel. Meanwhile, I’m exhausted after one morning in the kitchen.
Last Easter, I tried helping, hoping to curb the spoon situation. No luck. While I chopped vegetables, she arranged the salads and—inevitably—speared each with a spoon. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she said proudly. I sighed and surrendered. After all, her house, her rules. And her cooking’s too good to fuss over a few culinary “flags.”
Sometimes I wonder if the spoon’s more than habit—maybe a symbol? Perhaps to Margaret Anne, it’s her way of showing care, urging everyone to eat heartily. I asked Edward about its origins. He shrugged. “Mum thinks it makes guests dig in faster. She feeds an army, doesn’t she?” And it’s true—no one leaves her table hungry. Even Thomas, our picky eater, devours her shepherd’s pie.
This Easter, I won’t fight the spoon. It’s tradition—a quirk that makes the day feel complete. I imagine us around the table: Margaret Anne recounting how she dyed eggs with onion skins, Emily and Thomas debating whose shell is toughest, Edward winking as I fish the spoon from the salad. The thought warms me. Yes, Margaret Anne has her ways, but she’s the heart of our family. And I’m glad our children have a grandmother who teaches them not just to eat salad with a spoon but to relish life.
Maybe in a few years, I’ll start doing it myself—in honour of her. For now, I’ll arrive with good cheer, ready for the feast. And yes, for that spoon, standing sentry in the bowl, reminding me that at Margaret Anne’s, it’s always cosy, delicious, and just a little bit mad.
