**A Week of Sausage: When My Mother-in-Law Counts Our Bites**
That sweltering July afternoon, Margaret Whitmore was scrubbing windows, plumping cushions, and reminding her daughter it was high time to visit the countrysidethe garlic was ready for harvest. Emily tried to explain: work, commitments, the kids But her mother, stubborn as ever, wouldnt take no for an answer.
Summers nearly over, and youre cooped up in that flat in London! she snapped over the phone. The strawberries will rot, the potatoes will sprout, and youll just be staring at your phones!
In the end, they settled on a weekendjust long enough to help in the garden and enjoy a quiet evening.
As for me, Oliver, I had no desire to go. Our last visit had ended badly, leaving a sour taste. All Id asked for was a bit of sausage to go with the Sunday roastbut my mother-in-law had flat-out refused. So bluntly it left me speechless.
Saturday came, and we left early. We worked efficiently: the garlic was pulled, sorted, and stored. Then came the evening, dinner, and the usual family chatter. After a quick shower, I wandered into the kitchen. Emily and her mother were setting the table, the rich scent of roast filling the room. To tide me over, I opened the fridge and grabbed a few slices of sausage for a sandwichwhen suddenly
Dont touch that! Margarets voice cracked like a whip.
The sausage went straight back. I froze, stunned.
Whats the matter, Mum? Emily asked, bewildered.
That sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not before. And dont ruin your appetite! my mother-in-law cut in sharply.
I ate the roast but found no meat on my plate. I asked for a bit of sausage. Another refusal.
Why this obsession? Margaret huffed. Youve already eaten half of it! Do you know how much it costs? Its meant to last the week!
I pushed my plate away, my hunger gone, and retreated to the garden sofa, staring at the sky. Emily joined me later.
Lets go home. I cant stand this. Every move is watched like Im a thief. Im afraid to butter my toast too thick in case she snatches it from me.
Theres not even a shop here, Emily murmured, embarrassed. Just the greengrocers van on Wednesdays.
We shouldve brought food instead of cherries and plums, I grumbled. Im leaving tomorrow. Ill come back for you later. Because without proper meat, I wont last long.
Were leaving together, Emily said firmly.
The next morning, we drove back to London. Emily lied, claiming a work emergency for me. Margaret watched us go, her expression stormy.
A year passed. We never set foot in her cottage again. Yet she visited us without hesitationand, oddly, raided our fridge as if it were her own, taking whatever she pleased without asking. I even laughed about it:
Look, the sausage! Apparently, here, she has all the rights
But come spring, the calls started again:
So, when are you coming? The garden wont wait.
I resisteduntil Emily hatched a plan:
Lets bring our own supplies. That way, Mum cant ration our portions.
I agreedon one condition: a detour to the supermarket. And there we were, back at the countryside house, arms laden with bags.
Whats all this? More plums? Margaret pursed her lips. But rummaging through the bags, she found cheese, meat, sausage. And stayed silent.
Now you wont have to count how many grams Im eating, I smirked.
Margaret gave a disdainful sniff but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she muttered to Emily:
Itd be nice if you always brought supplies. Easier for me, less fuss for you.
Emily nodded, torn between irritation and amusement. But the main thing was settled: I was willing to return. With groceries, yes. But without rows or grudges. And when you think about it, thats its own kind of family happiness.
