For ten years, I’ve been married to William, and I genuinely respect—even love—my mother-in-law, Margaret. She’s kind, nurturing, always ready to help with the kids or treat us to her famous shepherd’s pie. But there’s one habit of hers I’ve never quite adjusted to—she insists on leaving a serving spoon stuck right in the middle of the salad bowl like a flagpole on a mountaintop. At Easter, we’ll gather around her dining table once more, and I’m already bracing myself for this culinary ritual. Though, if I’m honest, these quirks add charm to our family gatherings, and I can’t imagine life without these warm traditions.
Margaret is impossible not to admire. When I first married William, I was nervous, as any new bride might be, having heard horror stories of mothers-in-law who criticise everything. But Margaret was different. She welcomed me with open arms, taught me her secret shortcrust pastry trick, and never offered unwanted advice. When our children, Charlotte and Oliver, were born, she became the perfect grandmother—playing with them, reading stories, her secret stash of sweets a thing of legend. I truly feel blessed to have her. But that spoon in the salad? It’s my own personal nightmare.
It started at our first family dinner, back when William and I were still engaged. Margaret set a feast worthy of royalty—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, coleslaw, all perfectly arranged. Trying to be polite, I complimented the spread and reached for the coleslaw. That’s when I saw it—a massive spoon jammed right in the centre, standing tall like a skyscraper. Assuming it was an accident, I gently lifted it out and set it aside. Five minutes later, Margaret breezed past and stabbed it back in. “It’s easier this way, Emily—dig in!” she said cheerfully. I smiled, but inside, I was reeling.
Since then, that spoon has haunted me. Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it appears without fail, like an uninvited guest. Sometimes in potato salad, sometimes in a leafy mix, once even in a Greek salad, where it looked absurd beside the feta and olives. I’ve tried everything—removing it, offering to plate everything beforehand. But Margaret won’t budge. “It’s tradition, Emily,” she insists. “We’ve always done it this way!” William just chuckles. “You’re behind the times, Mum,” he teases. But she waves him off. “You youngsters don’t know the first thing about a proper dinner!”
Now, as Easter approaches, I can already picture the scene. Margaret at the head of the table in her best apron, beaming. Plates of roast lamb, hot cross buns, a perfectly glazed ham—and, of course, her signature salads, each with that damned spoon. I joke with William that we should gift her a spoon stand, just to break the habit. But truthfully, it’s become part of our family lore. Charlotte even drew a picture of Granny with a spoon planted in a bowl—much to everyone’s laughter, including Margaret’s.
Easter at her house is an event. She gathers everyone—us, William’s sister and her husband, cousins, even neighbours. The table groans under the weight of dishes, enough to feed an army. Margaret flits about, piling seconds onto plates, sharing stories of her youth. I watch her and wonder: how does she do it? She bakes, decorates eggs, plays conkers with Oliver—meanwhile, I’m wiped out after one afternoon in the kitchen.
Last Easter, I tried helping, hoping to fend off the spoon invasion. No luck. While I chopped vegetables, Margaret arranged the salads—and in went the spoons. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she said, admiring her work. I sighed and gave in. After all, her house, her rules. I focused instead on enjoying her cooking, ignoring the culinary “flagpoles.”
Sometimes I wonder—maybe the spoon isn’t just a habit. Maybe it’s her way of showing love, of urging everyone to eat heartily. I asked William where it came from. He shrugged. “Mum reckons it gets people digging in faster. She feeds us like we’re starving.” And it’s true—leaving her table hungry is impossible. Even Oliver, our picky eater, devours her roast potatoes.
This year, I’ve stopped fighting it. The spoon is part of the celebration now—Easter wouldn’t be the same without it. I picture us around the table, Margaret telling stories of dyeing eggs with onion skins, Charlotte and Oliver arguing over whose egg is toughest, William catching my eye as I pull the spoon free again. And you know what? It warms my heart. Yes, Margaret has her quirks, but she’s the heart of this family. I’m grateful our children are growing up with a grandmother who teaches them not just eccentric table manners, but how to embrace life.
Maybe in a few years, I’ll start jabbing spoons into salads myself—in Margaret’s honour. For now, I’ll arrive at Easter with a smile, ready for the feast. And yes, for that unmistakable spoon, standing like a beacon in the bowl, reminding me that her home is where we’ll always find warmth, laughter, and far too much food.
