“A Morning Surprise from Mother-in-Law”
“Good morning, love!” boomed my father-in-law, Harold Thompson, grinning as he swung the door open. Behind him stood my mother-in-law, Margaret, with an innocent look that suggested she hadn’t just been up to mischief. She gave me a faint smile and glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where her latest “surprise” awaited. Still oblivious, I nodded back, but five minutes later, I nearly groaned. Margaret has a talent for surprises—just not always the kind I’d choose. Now I’m left wondering whether to laugh or bury my face in my hands, because these little shocks from her are becoming a tradition.
My husband, James, and I have lived with his parents for six months now. When we married, they insisted we move in—”plenty of room in this big house,” and “family should stick together.” I agreed, though deep down, I’d dreamed of our own flat. Harold’s easygoing—always tinkering in the shed or watching football, never meddling. But Margaret? That’s another story. She isn’t mean, no, but she’s got a knack for inserting herself where she’s not asked and calling it “looking out for us.” And her surprises? Always with a catch.
That morning, I’d woken early to make breakfast. James had already left for work, and I planned to whip up some scrambled eggs, brew coffee, and ease into the day. But stepping into the kitchen, I froze. On the table sat an enormous pot, lid on, with a note beside it: “For you and James, love—enjoy!” Lifting the lid, I nearly gasped. Inside was a stew—but not any ordinary one. This was an experiment: overloaded with cabbage, smelling oddly sweet, and what had to be a pound of parsley. I like stew, but this looked like Margaret had raided the garden and the spice rack without a second thought.
Turning, I found her watching from the doorway. “Well, Emily, what do you think of my little gift?” she asked, beaming as if she’d presented a Michelin-starred dish. I forced a smile. “Thanks, Margaret. Very… creative.” She barrelled on: “I stayed up half the night making it—you two need proper meals. James can’t live on your salads, you know!” Proper meals? My scrambled eggs vanish off James’s plate, thank you very much. But arguing with Margaret is like shouting into a storm.
I tried hinting we had it covered. “Margaret, really, we usually keep things light. You needn’t go to so much trouble.” She waved me off. “Oh, don’t fuss! You’ll learn your way around a kitchen yet.” Learn? I’ve been cooking since I was fifteen, and my roast potatoes disappear faster than her “famous” shepherd’s pie. Yet she acts like we’d starve without her stew.
This isn’t her first “gift.” Last week, she hauled three jars of pickled onions from the cellar into our fridge, evicting my yogurts. “For winter, dear!” Winter? We live together—why would I need three jars? A month ago, she “helped” tidy our room and rearranged my entire wardrobe for “better order.” I spent hours hunting my favourite jumper. James just laughs: “Mum’s set in her ways, Em. Humour her.” Easy for him—he’s at work while I dodge her surprises.
The oddest part? Margaret genuinely believes she’s helping. She’s not the scheming mother-in-law type—she truly thinks her stew saves us, and her advice will make me a “proper wife.” But I don’t want to cook like her! I love making risotto or trying Thai flavours, not simmering vats of stew for days. And I want my kitchen to be mine, not Margaret’s culinary annexe.
I’ve talked to James, but he’s Switzerland. “Em, she means well. Have a spoonful, say it’s lovely, and she’ll drop it.” A spoonful? I downed two pints of water after—it was saltier than the North Sea! I suggested compromise: if she wants to cook, just ask first. James promised to talk to her, but I doubt it’ll stick. She’s already plotting her next “surprise”—something about a meat pie. I’m bracing for another pot.
Sometimes I dream of a flat where no one rearranges my spices or boils unasked-for stews. But then I remind myself: Margaret, quirks and all, isn’t cruel. She’s just from another time, when mother-in-law knew best. Maybe I should relax and treat her surprises as family charm. But staring at that pot, I think: if she calls my scrambled eggs “rabbit food” one more time, I’ll start rolling sushi right in front of her. Let’s see her stuff that with parsley.
