My in-laws customs make me queasyI simply cant bring myself to visit them.
Honestly, a trip to my husbands parents house fills me with such dread that I start looking for escape routes even before the car leaves our driveway. Sitting down at their table? Thats enough to turn my stomach. Its not just a fussinessthough, in fairness, I do possess a finely tuned sense of squeamishness. Im perfectly happy to chat with them about rain, cricket, and the virtues of Earl Grey over breakfast tea, but the minute food is involved, Im on high alert. My husband thinks Im daft, and my mother-in-law says Im a delicate flower, forever acting like some sort of duchess whos never seen a chip fork.
Thank heavens we live separately. Unfortunately, were not quite far enough away that a phone call can suffice, so the occasional pilgrimage is still required. Its always stressful. I usually plot elaborate excusesbad colds, phantom appointmentsanything to avoid the dinner ordeal. Dont get me wrong, my husbands family seem perfectly ordinary. Dad and Mum, both in respectable jobs and both with university degrees. Their house is the picture of comfort and order. Yet when we gather round their table, I feel like a contestant on some twisted version of Im a CelebrityGet Me Out of Here!
Lets get this straight: I wouldnt even dare use the same teaspoon as my husband if hes already given it a good lick. My boundaries are clearI simply cannot abide double-dipping, no matter how loving the relationship.
If my husbands table habits have softened over time (one for the marital harmony column), his parents ways remain an absolute minefield. For example, my mother-in-law will mix up a big salad in a communal bowl, dip in to check the seasoning, andwait for itlick the serving spoon before plunging it back into the salad like a culinary boomerang. I mean, come on. Ew doesnt even cover it.
Or take the drinks. Theyre big on the gin and the whisky, while I normally stick with a nice bottle of English white. But my mother-in-law thinks nothing of taking a sip from my glass, just to see what youre drinking, dear. Why?! Its basic hygiene! Shes not my sister, shes barely even familyat least not in the way that warrants sharing saliva. I try to swap out my glass on the sly, but its not always subtle.
My father-in-law is no better. He spends the entire evening poking fun at meborderline offensive, if you ask mewhile my poor husband makes vague attempts to intervene. It usually goes about as well as a soggy crumpet.
And then theres the leftover situation. My mother-in-law will heat up soup, eat half, pour the remains from her bowl back into the saucepan, and pop it in the fridge. If its not already laced with mayonnaise or clotted cream, back in it goes. She does that with everything. Even half-eaten salads from guests plates after a family buffet. For this reason, I steer well clear of anything not freshly madeodds are, its a Frankensteins monster of various other peoples leftovers.
Oh, did I mention her cooking test? Before frying anything in the pan, shell actually spit on it to check the heat. I kid you not. There have to be a million ways to check if a pans hot, so why shes gone for Globe-Trotting Llama is beyond me. Nothing survives at that temperature, love, she assures me, but once youve seen it, its burned into your mind like a dodgy soap plot twist.
The final straw, though, was the dog. After a family feast, a bowl of leftover roast potatoes and stew was left on the edge of the table, then placed on the floor for the dog to finish off. Next thing, the same bowl is lobbed in the sink with the rest of the crockery as if this is just part of the Queens own dinner service. I finally snapped. I pointed out that eating after the dog is a bit much, only to be looked at as though Id just suggested banning tea. All the dishes get a good wash anyway, they said. Thats not the point! Plates are for people, not pooches.
I half-joked to my mother-in-law that if its all the same, I should just wash the dogs bowl and serve up my own meal in it. She was mortally offended. I only pointed out the logic of her own argument. My husband, ever the diplomat, later told me Id gone overboardbut honestly, I feel entirely justified.
I absolutely dread going round theirs. Id happily bring my own food and cutlery, but then my mother-in-law would be outraged, and the whole occasion would be ruined. Im completely stuck. If I boycott, my husband will never hear the end of it. If I go, I spend the whole night feeling ill.
Honestly, I just want to move to another cityManchester, maybeanywhere really, just far enough to avoid these awkward dinners forever. Phone calls I can manage. But visits? Not a chance.
