My Husband’s Family Traditions Are Making Me Sick – I Just Can’t Visit Them Anymore

The habits in my husband’s family made me quite unwell, so much so that I could scarcely bring myself to visit them.

Even now, I remember those visits to my husband’s parents’ house with a sense of dread, my stomach twisting at some of their customs. Try as I might, I could never steel myself to sit at their table without feeling a wave of nausea. I could manage polite conversation, yes, but the thought of sharing a meal left me unsettled. My husband never seemed to notice anything amiss, while my mother-in-law was convinced I was nothing more than a delicate, fussy girl who always found fault.

Thank heavens, my husband and I lived separately from his parents. Regrettably, not so far that a simple telephone call could suffice instead of a visit; I was still expected to make the journey to their home from time to time. Each visit became a trialId scramble to come up with new excuses to stay away. His family, in truth, was perfectly ordinary: father and mother, both gainfully employed, both educated. Their house was neat and comfortable. Yet as soon as we sat at the table, a sense of unease gripped me.

I’ve always been a rather particular personlet it not be misunderstood. I would never, for instance, taste anything from my husbands spoon if hed already used it. No matter how much I tried to force myself, I could not overcome my aversion.

With my husband, over time, I managed to adjustfamiliarity bred some comfort. With his parents, however, I could not reconcile myself to their ways. Take my mother-in-law, for instance. She might mix a salad in a large bowl, sample it for salt, then, without a thought, lick the spoon and put it straight back in. I could scarcely conceal my disgust.

Then there was the matter of drink: when spirits were poured, I usually preferred to bring my own bottle of wine. Yet my mother-in-law wouldnt hesitate to pick up my glass mid-conversation and take a sip under the pretense of just having a taste. Why she did this, I couldnt begin to fathomit struck me as terribly unhygienic, and she was, after all, nearly a stranger to me. I would try to quietly swap my glass after such incidents, but it wasnt always possible. My father-in-laws behaviour was equally frustrating; he would spend the evening teasing me, sometimes venturing into the downright offensive. My husband attempted to intervene, but nothing ever changed.

My mother-in-law kept several other habits that I found difficult to stomach. She had a way of pouring unfinished soup right back into the pot to save it for later, assuming, of course, there was neither mayonnaise nor cream mixed in. This same method extended to all leftoverseven salads scraped from guests plates after a gathering. For this reason, I learned never to eat anything in their house that hadnt been freshly prepared, lest I end up with someone elses scraps.

Another of her customs was to spit on the frying pan to test its heat before cooking, declaring that the high temperature would kill off anything regardless. There must be a dozen other, more sanitary ways to test a pans readiness, but she would not be swayed. I had seen her do it more than once, and now the memory would not leave me.

The moment that finally broke me came after a communal meal, when the familys dog was allowed to lick the plates clean. I remember wella large bowl, rimmed with leftover potatoes and stew, was placed on the floor for the dog, then later washed with the rest of the dishes as if nothing were amiss.

That time I could no longer keep silent; I protested that eating from a dish that had just been licked by a dog was more than I could bear. They looked at me as if I were the eccentric one and reminded me, quite dismissively, that the plates were thoroughly washed. Be that as it may! Dogs shouldn’t be eating off plates meant for people. I went as far as to suggest, half in jest but quite pointedly, that if she truly believed all was sanitary, perhaps shed like me to clean the dogs bowl and have my supper from it. My mother-in-law was deeply offended, but by her reasoning, a clean dish was a clean dish. My husband was convinced Id overreacted, but to this day, I feel justified.

Now, I am quite loath to visit my in-laws. If I were to appear with my own food and drink, the day would be spoiled and my mother-in-law wounded to the core. I find myself at an impassenot wishing to deny my husband, for it would leave him awfully disappointed, yet unable to endure another distressing visit.

I still dream of relocating to another cityperhaps York or Bathjust far enough that visits would no longer be expected. Then, and only then, would I be content to confine our relationship to the telephone, without the ordeal of sitting at her table again.