Invited by the In-Laws: A Stunning Table Discovery
My in-laws invited us over. Seeing their table left me utterly gobsmacked.
For three days, Id prepped to host them as if cramming for a life-or-death exam. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality wasnt just traditionit was sacred duty. From childhood, I was taught that guests must leave stuffed to the gills, even if it meant handing over the last crumb of bread. At home, the table groaned under cheeses from the farmers market, homemade pies, pickles, and enough cold cuts to feed a football team. It wasnt just foodit was love, respect, and a bit of showing off.
Our daughter, Poppy, married a few months back. Wed met the in-laws before, but only in neutral spotspub lunches, the wedding. Theyd never seen our cosy little semi in the outskirts of London, and I was a nervous wreck about hosting. I suggested Sunday lunchhoping to bond over a proper roast. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed cheerfully, and I went into full battle mode: stocked the fridge, baked my famous walnut cake (none of that shop-bought nonsense), and even polished the good cutlery. Hospitality runs in my blood, and I was determined not to fluff it.
Turns out, the in-laws were lovelyboth university professors, sharp as tacks, with that effortless poshness that makes you sit up straighter. Id worried about awkward silences, but the evening flew by with chatter about the kids future, terrible dad jokes, and a second helping of trifle. Poppy and her husband swung by later, and the vibe got even cosier. By the end, the in-laws invited us to theirs the following week. Clearly, wed passed the testmy heart did a little victory jig.
The invite thrilled me. I bought a new dressnavy, demure, very Kate Middletonand, naturally, baked another cake (because a supermarket one would be an insult to my ancestors). My husband, James, grumbled about breakfast that morning, but I shut him down: Margarets handling lunch. If you rock up stuffed, shell think we dont trust her cooking! Tough it out. He sighed but obeyed.
Arriving at their city flat, I was dazzled. The place looked like a spread from *Homes & Gardens*gleaming counters, tasteful art, not a cushion out of place. I braced for a proper feast. Then we reached the dining table. My jaw dropped. It was barren. Not a bread roll, not a biscuit, just stark, empty wood. Tea or coffee? Margaret asked breezily, as if this were perfectly normal. The only edible thing in sight was my cake, which she praised before casually asking for the recipe. Tea and a sliver of cakethat was the grand spread.
Staring at that barren table, irritation bubbled up like a faulty kettle. James sat beside me, his face a picture of hangry despair. He said nothing, but I knewhe was mentally counting the minutes till we could escape to the nearest chippy. I plastered on a smile, claimed an early exit, and we said our goodbyes. Of course, they cheerfully announced theyd pop round ours next week. Naturallybecause *our* table actually has food on it, not just a lone teabag looking lost.
In the car, I couldnt shake the shock. Who hosts like that? To me, a tables the heart of a homepiled high with proof you care. To them, apparently, its just a place to rest your mug. James stayed silent, but his face screamed betrayallikely fantasising about the leftover roast in our fridge. (Yes, Id forbidden him from touching it earlier.) And me? I wasnt cross about the lack of foodjust the baffling indifference from people who were now family. Bloody academics. Next time, Im bringing sandwiches.
