I’ve been married to William for ten years now, and I genuinely respect and even love my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth. She’s kind, caring, and always ready to help with the children or treat us to her famous scones. But there’s one habit of hers I’ve never quite gotten used to—she always leaves a spoon in the salad bowl! And not just leaves it, but stabs it right in, like a flag on a mountain. At Easter, we’ll gather around her big table again, and I’m already mentally preparing for this culinary ritual. But honestly, these little quirks just add charm to our family gatherings, and I can’t imagine our lives without these warm get-togethers.
Margaret Elizabeth is impossible not to respect. When I first married William, I was like any young bride—nervous about my mother-in-law. I’d heard friends’ horror stories about “monsters in skirts” who critique everything. But Margaret Elizabeth was different. She welcomed me with a smile, taught me to bake her legendary apple crumble, and never gave unsolicited advice. When our children, Charlotte and Oliver, were born, she became the best grandmother: playing with them, reading bedtime stories, and her secret stash of sweets is practically legendary. I’m truly grateful to have her. But that spoon in the salad… it’s my personal nightmare.
It all started at our very first family dinner, back when William and I were just engaged. Margaret Elizabeth laid out a feast fit for royalty: roast beef with all the trimmings, prawn cocktail, shepherd’s pie—everything perfect. Trying to be a good guest, I complimented the spread and reached for a helping. Then I saw it: a huge serving spoon, right in the middle of the potato salad, sticking up like the spire of a cathedral. I assumed it was a mistake, so I carefully lifted it out and set it aside. Five minutes later, Margaret Elizabeth walked past and stabbed it right back in! “It’s easier this way, Emily—help yourself!” she said cheerfully. I nodded, but inside, I was reeling.
Since then, that spoon has haunted me. At every holiday—Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it appears in the salads like an uninvited guest. Sometimes it’s in the coleslaw, sometimes the Waldorf salad, and once, even in a Greek salad, where it looked utterly out of place among the feta and olives. I’ve tried to fight it: removing the spoon, offering to plate the salads in advance. But Margaret Elizabeth stands firm. “Emily, it’s tradition,” she insists. “We’ve always done it this way!” William just laughs. “Mum, who does that anymore?” She always fires back, “You young people don’t understand proper hospitality!”
Now, as I think ahead to Easter, I can already picture the table. Margaret Elizabeth will be at the head, in her best floral apron, beaming. There’ll be hot cross buns, roast lamb, trifle, and of course, her signature salads—each with its obligatory spoon. I’ve joked with William that we should buy her a fancy spoon stand to break the habit. But honestly, it’s become part of our family lore. Charlotte even drew a picture of Granny with a giant spoon in a bowl—we all laughed, Margaret Elizabeth included.
Easter at hers is always an event. She gathers everyone: us, William’s sister and her husband, cousins, even the neighbours. The table groans under the weight of food, and she fusses over everyone, piling on second helpings and sharing stories of her youth. I watch her and wonder: where does she get the energy? She bakes, decorates eggs, and still plays conkers with Oliver. Meanwhile, I’m exhausted after one afternoon in the kitchen.
Last Easter, I tried helping, hoping to curb the spoon situation. No luck. While I chopped vegetables, she arranged the salads—each with its utensil standing proudly. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she said, admiring her work. I sighed and gave up. After all, her house, her rules. I just enjoy her cooking and try to ignore the culinary “flagpoles.”
Sometimes I wonder if the spoon is more than a habit—maybe it’s her way of showing care, making sure everyone digs in. I asked William where it came from. He shrugged. “Mum thinks it gets people eating faster. She’d feed an army if she could.” And it’s true—no one leaves her table hungry. Even Oliver, our fussy eater, devours her roast potatoes.
Now, as Easter approaches, I’ve made peace with the spoon. It’s tradition—missing it would feel wrong. I imagine us sitting down, Margaret Elizabeth recounting how she dyed eggs with beetroot, Charlotte and Oliver arguing over whose shell is toughest, William winking as I pull the spoon out yet again. And you know what? It warms my heart. Yes, Margaret Elizabeth has her quirks, but she’s the heart of our family. And I’m glad my children have a grandmother who teaches them not just to eat salad with a spoon in it, but to embrace life.
Maybe in a few years, I’ll start doing it too—in her honour. For now, I’ll just bring my best mood to Easter and brace for the feast. And, of course, that spoon, standing tall like a beacon, reminding me that her home is where we’ll always find warmth, good food, and a little laughter.
