April 10th
It’s been ten years since I married William, and I truly respect—even love—my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth. She’s kind, thoughtful, always ready to help with the kids 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 the serving spoon stuck upright in the salad bowl, like a flag planted on a summit. This Easter, we’ll gather around her dining table again, and I’m already steeling myself for this culinary ritual. Still, if I’m honest, these little quirks add character to our family gatherings, and I can’t imagine life without these cosy traditions.
Margaret Elizabeth is impossible not to admire. When I first married William, like any new bride, I was wary of my mother-in-law. I’d heard horror stories from friends about “monsters-in-law” who criticise everything. But Margaret was different. She welcomed me with open arms, taught me to bake her legendary treacle tart, and never offered unsolicited advice. When our children, Emily and Oliver, were born, she became the perfect grandmother—telling them stories, sneaking them sweets from her secret stash. I’m truly grateful for her. But that spoon in the salad? My personal nightmare.
It started at our first family dinner, back when William and I were still engaged. Margaret had laid the table like a royal banquet: roast beef with all the trimmings, shepherd’s pie, Yorkshire puddings—everything immaculate. Trying to be polite, I complimented the spread and reached for a helping. Then I saw it: a serving spoon standing tall in the coleslaw, like the Shard in a bed of cabbage. I assumed it was an oversight, so I carefully set it aside. Five minutes later, Margaret walked past—and plunged it right back in. “Easier to serve, darling—help yourself!” she said cheerfully. I nodded, but internally, I was reeling.
From then on, that spoon became my nemesis. Every holiday—Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it reappeared like an uninvited guest. Sometimes in potato salad, sometimes in a Waldorf, even once in a Greek salad, where it looked downright absurd among the feta and olives. I tried fighting it: removing the spoon, arranging salads in individual bowls. No use. “It’s tradition, dear,” Margaret would say. “We’ve always done it this way!” William just laughs: “Mum, who does that anymore?” She retorts, “You young people have no sense of proper hosting!”
Now, as Easter approaches, I can picture the scene. Margaret will preside over the table in her floral apron, beaming. Roast lamb, hot cross buns, trifle—and, of course, her signature salads with their defiant spoon. I’ve joked with William about gifting her a spoon stand to break the habit, but truthfully, it’s become part of our family lore. Emily once drew a picture of Granny with a giant spoon in a bowl, and even Margaret laughed.
Easter at hers is an event. The whole family crowds in—us, William’s sister and her husband, cousins, even neighbours. The table groans under platters of food enough to last a week. Margaret fusses over everyone, refilling plates, sharing tales of her youth. I watch her and wonder how she does it—baking simnels, dyeing eggs, still finding energy to play conkers with Oliver. Meanwhile, I’m exhausted after prepping sprouts.
Last Easter, I tried helping in the kitchen, hoping to curb the spoon situation. No luck. While I chopped onions, Margaret was already garnishing salads—spoon firmly planted in each. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she said proudly. I gave up. Her house, her rules. Besides, her cooking’s too good to argue over cutlery.
Sometimes I wonder if the spoon is symbolic. Maybe it’s Margaret’s way of saying, “Eat up—you’re family.” William shrugs when I ask: “Mum thinks it encourages people to dig in. She feeds everyone like they’re starving.” And she does. Even Oliver, our picky eater, devours her toad-in-the-hole.
This year, I’ve made peace with the spoon. It’s part of the tradition now. I can see us all at the table: Margaret telling stories about dyeing eggs with onion skins, Emily and Oliver bickering over whose egg is toughest, William winking as I surreptitiously remove the spoon. The thought makes me smile. Yes, Margaret has her quirks—but she’s the heart of this family. And I’m glad our children have a grandmother who teaches them not just eccentric table manners, but how to savour life.
Maybe in a few years, I’ll start planting spoons in salads myself—for Margaret’s sake. For now, I’ll arrive at Easter with good humour and an appetite. And yes, ready for that spoon, standing sentinel in the bowl, reminding me that her home is where we’re always welcome, well-fed, and thoroughly amused.
