Nobody quite remembers where Aunt Mabel—Mum’s friend—came from. To me, she seemed like she’d always existed, like rain, pigeons, or Cliff Richard. Dad reckoned she was a shadow government agent planted among ordinary folk for social experiments. Grandad, on the other hand, swore she was the fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, kicked out for being *too* enthusiastic. Even Mum couldn’t properly explain how they knew each other. Aunt Mabel was like that mysterious key on a keyring—no clue what it’s for, but too scary to throw away.
Aunt Mabel had no husband, no kids, but *plenty* of free time. Women like that are more dangerous than the flu. Pour concrete over her legs, drop her in the ocean—she’d still stir up chaos until every fish grew legs just to escape her.
If we’re talking business savvy, Aunt Mabel had *business* in the same way a stapler has a heart attack. Every year, she’d rope us into her latest scheme, and there was no escaping it—not even abroad. Aunt Mabel had a passport, a multi-entry visa, spoke three languages fluently, and yet none of them included the word “no.”
At one point, she sold Cuban skincare that gave Mum silky moustache hairs and a crippling addiction. Then she knitted men’s underwear from synthetic merino wool—Dad’s turn to suffer. She promised him “virility” and demanded feedback after a month of wear. Dad gave it after three days. Rumor has it, Tom Jones called him that night asking for an autograph.
Grandad got it too. Aunt Mabel sold him supplements for “gut cleansing and blood pressure.” He ended up on the local news for a week, and the *weather forecast* for a month—just for stepping outside.
She had *so* many ideas: handmade soap with nettle extract, “healthy” sweets made of coriander and thistles, eel-skin accessories. She’d talk for hours about the wonders of her products until you started walking on all fours and questioning evolution. When faith in God, science, and common sense finally crumbled, she’d offer a discount. The victim would cave. And as her “dearest friends,” we got “lucky”—free samples.
Then, a month ago, Aunt Mabel started making homemade cheese and bringing it over in every possible form. The smell was indescribable. Pretty sure our flat—no, *the whole building*—won’t be fit for sale or rent for another decade. Only Grandad was thrilled; no one made him wash socks anymore, and he got praised for “sticking to his principles.”
The cheese was *weird*. It broke graters, exploded microwaves, and vanished entirely in the oven. Sometimes, we swore it attacked other fridge items and converted them into more cheese.
Once, I tried adding it to pasta with ketchup. The result was enriched uranium, and now the family’s banned from leaving the country for seven years.
Mum begged us to endure it. Aunt Mabel swore the first batch was always wonky, and the next would be “the bomb.” Grandad carried a hammer for a week after that, threatening to cut us out of his *will* if a single crumb touched his plate. Dad had it worse—he loved Mum more than life (his own fault), so no choice there.
As for me? Aunt Mabel declared modern kids were “walking periodic tables” who could “eat chocolate wrappers for breakfast” and said my blood was basically vegetable oil. Hers, though? *Pure.* Mum nodded along, and when Grandad’s Geiger counter went berserk, Aunt Mabel scoffed, “What does *he* know?”
But then—something odd happened. The cheese… wasn’t bad. Sure, we knocked back a litre of activated charcoal first and reinforced all biological exits in case of sudden *leakage*. But the taste? Shockingly good. Creamy, subtle spice, a nutty finish. Mum made sandwiches, Dad tossed it in salads, and even Grandad—lured in by the smell—took a few bites.
Aunt Mabel had won. For the first time ever, her promises matched reality, and a project got actual approval. Though she *did* confess to Mum: she hadn’t made the cheese. Her new husband—a chef—had. After nearly killing him on their first date with “cheese soup” (three days on a drip), he’d woken up *enlightened*. His life’s mission? Saving humanity from Aunt Mabel’s schemes. If she got an idea, he’d execute it *properly* and let her take credit. He even married her—probably out of duty to mankind.
Now? We watch their marriage closely. And pray—*hard*—that they stay happy.
