Mother-in-Law’s Homemade Meat Patties

Mother-in-laws Meatballs

Nigel and Alice had been married for three and a half years, and in all that time, Alice had only set foot in Nigels parents house maybe four times. Visits were limited to major holidaysa couple of hours, then straight back to the city, to their own home.

This time, though, Nigel was unusually insistent: his mother had rung up for the third time that week, lamenting that she missed them, going on about how Dad had done his back in while fixing the shed roof, and that the veg patch was overrun with weeds. Nigel was one of those amenable sonshe rang his mum every Sunday, like clockwork, nodded faithfully down the phone (even if she was saying things he wholeheartedly disagreed with). Now, as he sat at the dinner table, gnawing on a cold sausage with pasta, he looked at Alice with the hopefulness of a puppy.

Alice, he said, pushing his plate away and folding his hands, Mum called again. Said weve all but forgotten she exists. Lets go visit this weekend? Just for a couple of days. Please?

Nigel, Ive got a hair appointment on Saturday, Alice tried to protest, though she knew she wasnt making a strong case.

Just reschedule, Nigel waved away her concerns, as if changing an appointment was the simplest thing on Earth. You know what Mums likeshell take it to heart. Shes promised to cook her famous meatballs and bake some pies. She misses us, Al.

Hows your dad? Alice asked, mostly out of politeness; she and her father-in-law had always kept things cordial but distant.

Oh, hell be fine, sighed Nigel. Always something wrong with him. Anyway, Ive decided. Were going. Drive down Friday after work, back Sunday. Ill tell Mum, shell be thrilled.

Alice sighed but didnt argue. Shed learned early on, after three and a half years, that arguing with Nigel when hed made up his mind was as useful as telling the cat not to climb the curtains.

That Friday, they packed a bag for the weekend, along with a carrier full of gifts. Nigel had chosen a plush throw for his mum and a bottle of whisky for his dad. The drive out into the countryside took a good two hours if you missed the traffic.

The car journey passed with Alice gazing at the hedgerows, watching the landscape roll by, disused service stations and roadside pubs with gloriously naff names. Nigel cheerfully sang along to the radio, and Alice tried to convince herself it might not be terriblethree days, after all, werent so long, and his mum was basically a kind-hearted woman.

They arrived after dark. The house stood at the far end of the lane, bathed in the weak glow from an ancient lamppost. Nigel turned onto the gravel drive, cut the engine, and a light popped on above the porch. The door flew open, and out bustled Lindasmall, chirpy, round-faced, beaming wide enough to split her cheeks.

Nigey! she squealed across the stillness, flinging herself at her son as he clambered from the car. I thought youd got lost! Ive been cooking and baking since dawn, Alice, darling, come in quick, youll catch your death out there!

Alice stepped from the car, straightened her jacket, put on a polite smile, and let herself be wrapped in a cinnamon-scented hug. Linda smelt of fried onionsand something sweet and cloying that made Alices nose twitch.

Inside it was toasty, the air thick with the scent of food, sizzling from the kitchen. The table in the lounge was already set: sliced ham, bread, a plate of pickled onions, a jar of home-made jam, and half a loaf of brown bread. PeterNigels dadsat glued to the news, but got up to greet them, his expression a relief of mild worry. Traffic, darkness, you never know what can happen.

So, you made it, he said, shaking his sons hand, and nodding at Alice, Evening, love. Come in, get your coat off, lets have some supper.

Ive got a batch of meatballs fresh for you, Linda called from the kitchen, bustling and rearranging plates for no good reason. With mash, onions, proper gravy. Nigey, you love my meatballs, dont you?

I do, Mum, you know I do. Already, Nigels coat was off and he was peering into pots, which made Linda preen with pride.

Alice hung her coat in the drafty hall and followed him in. Lindas kitchen was tiny but brimming with cosinesscode for every surface obscured by jam jars, spice bottles, tin after tin, packets of pasta, and a whole regiment of mixing bowls.

Sit down, Alice, love, Linda insisted, scooting out a chair and wiping it with her apron. You must be shattered from the drive. Ill have dinner ready in a tick.

She whirled round, grabbing a plate and then putting it back, cracked open the oven and a wave of roast meat rolled out, making Alice realise how hungry she was. The only sustenance since setting off had been coffee from a flask.

And then Alice saw it.

Linda was standing at the kitchen table, by a large mixing bowl filled with raw mince. An entire moundgrey-pink and sticky, already half-formed into a dozen neat meatballs, dusted with breadcrumbs, all lined up on a chopping board. Linda took another lump of mince, rolled it into a ball, pressed it flat. Then, right in front of Alice, the very hand that had just shaped the raw meatball disappeared under Lindas left arm, deep beneath her armpit.

Not just a distracted scratch, but a proper rummagefive fingers, a thorough attacksigh of relief and everything. Then, without washing or even the faintest wipe with kitchen roll, back went the same hand into the next hunk of mince.

Alices stomach lurched.

She couldnt drag her gaze from that handordinary, mumsy, with trimmed nails, a wedding ring biting into her swollen knuckle, the fine network of little lines. That hand had been under an armpit. And now it was in the mince. The same mince from which Alice and Nigel had often been sent home with frozen bags of Lindas famous meatballs these past years. Theyd always said they were magicAlice had told her mother-in-law over the phone shed never tasted anything so good.

Mum! called Nigel, Have you got some tea? Were freezing.

On it, sweetheart! Linda was still rolling meatballs. Just finishing these, and then well sit down.

She shaped another one, and Alice watched little grey smears bloom on the wood wherever Lindas hand touched. Or maybe she was imagining it? She blinked twice and there was just the board, the mince, the methodical hands.

Linda, would you like a hand? Alice offered softly. I can finish these, if you want to put the kettle on.

Oh youre a guest, love! Sit, sitrest yourself. Im nearly there.

And to demonstrate, Linda took the final blob of mince, made the last meatball, lined it up proudly, then glanced at her hands, nodded in satisfaction, and gave them a quick rinse under the tapthree seconds, no soap, just a splash, and then rubbed them dry on her apron.

Alice watched, feeling disgust coil inside her.

She tried to reason with herself. What was the big deal? People scratched themselves. Her own grandmaGod rest her soulused to knead dough, push up her hair, carry on, and everyone lived to tell the tale. Maybe Alice was simply a bit squeamish…

But she couldnt stop seeing that image in her mind: hand, armpit, hand, mince.

Dinner was in the front room, around a big table under a flowery wipe-clean cloth. Linda brought in a sizzling pan of meatballsgolden brown, crisp, mouth-watering to anyone else, but Alices mouth filled with saliva for the wrong reasons. A bowl of creamy mash, warm with melted butter, a plate of tomatoes and cucumbers, crusty bread, chutney, jug of squash.

Help yourselves, lovelies! Linda beamed, sliding meatballs towards Alice. Take the brownest, Alice, I made these for you two.

They looked perfectly normal. Appetising, even. Nigel served himself two, hefted on mashed potatoes, sliced up cucumber, and tucked in with noisy delight.

Mm! he mumbled, Top notch, Mum. Like always.

Glad you like em, Linda glowed, tearing off a chunk of bread. I was worried I was short on salt.

Its all good. Nigel was already halfway through the first. You always make the best food.

Peter ate in silence, nodding occasionally. Hed always been a man of few wordsthe most Alice ever recalled him saying at once was when he explained how to change a spark plug.

Alice, darling, not hungry? Linda asked, concern etched deep as she saw Alices still-full plate. You dont like them? Too salty?

No, its all delicious, Alice replied quickly, fearing if she didnt try a bite, Linda would be hurt. Just a bit off after the journey. My stomach gets like that sometimes.

She broke off the tiniest bit of meatball crust and forced it down. It tasted fine, but she couldnt banish that mental image: the very mince she was now eating, kneaded by a hand fresh from the armpit. She gagged, barely managing to swallow it.

Lovely, she managed, pushing the plate away. Linda, could I just have some mash and a bit of salad? The meatball is delicious, honestly, but I cant manage much.

Oh, you poor thing, Linda fussed. Of coursemore mash, and I can pack you a tub of these for later. I made loads, just in case you two turned up starving.

Nigel shot Alice a quick look, then dug in with gusto, unbothered by the thought of hand hygiene.

Alice poked at mashed potato, munched cucumber, and tried to talk herself round. Millions grew up eating food from kitchens just like this, prepped by hands just like hers and Lindas. But the vision kept coming backmince, hand, armpit.

After dinner, Linda washed up. Nigel and his dad disappeared to the shed to check something with the generator. Alice sat at the kitchen table, alone with her mother-in-law, who was now making a fresh pot of tea in a cracked teapot.

Dont mind me pestering you two to visit, Linda said as she poured, Im just glad I can see you. I know youre both busy, what with jobs and city life. But it puts my mind at rest, you know?

Were fine, really, Alice replied, sipping the tea although her stomach was still turning. Work, homesame as everyone.

Good, good, Linda nodded. I know you two like my meatballs. Nigey always wants me to pack some up for him. Cant get anything like them in townfull of chemicals, that stuff. I buy my meat from the farm shop, proper stuff. And I insist on making my own mince.

Alice sipped, scalded her tongue by accident, and nausea bubbled once more. She pictured those unsupervised handsboiling the kettle, washing these cupsand had to set her mug down before she vomited.

Linda, do you mind if I lie down for a bit? Think its caught up with me, the drive.

Of course, darling, beds made up in the spare room. Shout if you want anything.

Alice left the kitchen, went to the poky little guest room, shut the door, and sat on the bed trying not to think, but her stomach rebelled. She dashed to the lav down the corridor, just in time.

When Nigel came back, he found her sitting in a heap on the bed, hollow-eyed and pale.

You alright? he asked, sitting. Are you really that rough?

Nigel, Alice said, looking him dead in the eye, I have to tell you something, and pleasedont shout or laugh.

Alright, tell me, Nigel braced himself.

And she did. The entire scene, precisely as it happened: the hand, the armpit, the mince, the sudden sickness. She kept her voice low, not wanting anyone to overhear.

Nigel stared, an unreadable expression on his facenot quite disbelief, irritation, or understanding.

Look, he said, after a pause, Mums just beingwell, Mum. She wasnt doing it on purpose. Everyone scratches. Dyou think your nan washed up after every cough or sneeze? This is what home cooking is, Alice.

Nigel, she didnt wash her hands, insisted Alice, gripping the bedspread. She went straight from her armpit to the meat! No soapbarely a rinse. And now I cant stop thinking about every batch shes sent us.

So what do you want, then? Nigels tone sharpened. Tell her shes unclean in her own kitchen? Shell be devastated. She only does it because she cares.

I dont want to tell her, Alice covered her face. I just cant eat her food anymore. I cant look at it.

Nigel got up, ran a hand through his hair (always a sign of his own annoyance).

Youre making too much of this, he said stiffly. It happens. You telling me you never scratch yourself in the kitchen? Straighten your fringe, lick your finger? This isnt an operating theatre, its dinner at home. Youll go nuts worrying over every crumb.

I wash my hands, Alice said quietly. After everything. Its just the way I am.

Well, arent you a marvel, Nigel retorted, almost angry, and Alice realised he was not, in this, on her side. But my mums always been like this. I grew up on her food. You used to say it was the best.

I didnt know, she whispered. But now I doI wont forget it.

Oh, never mind, Nigel exhaled, frustrated. She only scratched, notwell, never mind. You should see what goes on in restaurant kitchens. Hair everywhere, hands in everything. You still eat out, dont you?

Nigel, please, Alice feared shed cry, or worse, be sick again. Id rather not think about it.

Fine, he backed off, putting an arm around her. Lookdont eat if you cant. Ill tell Mum youre illsick bug or something. Just dont say anything, please. Shell take it to heart.

I wont, said Alice, leaning into him. I just want to go home.

Well go tomorrow, he promised quietly. Ill say youre unwell and need your own bed. Alright?

Alright, she whispered, though it was anything but.

She lay down, Nigel flicked off the lamp, and together they stared at the ceiling, listening to the murmur of the TV, Peters infrequent coughs, and Lindas clattering in the kitchen.

Alice couldnt stop thinking of all the times shed praised Lindas meatballs, begged for the recipe, genuinely enthused over their taste. Now all she could wonder was if that, perhaps, had been the secret ingredient.

She woke next morning feeling wrung out. Nigel was up, having tea with his parents, chatting and laughing. She wanted desperately not to leave the bedroom but realised she couldnt hide all day.

She splashed cold water on her face and joined them in the kitchen.

Oh! Alice, love, Linda exclaimed, Nigey said you were poorly all night? Fever? Let me make you some hot tea and jamitll do you good.

Thank you, Linda, Alice murmured, perching on a chair, pointedly not looking at the plate of leftover meatballs, covered by an old napkin. Im feeling a bit better, probably just something I ate on the way.

Those motorway cafés, Linda shook her head, setting a mug of tea in front of her and sliding over a jar of homemade raspberry jam. I always tell Peterbetter a sandwich here than anywhere out there. You end up with all sorts but eat home and youll never go wrong.

Mum, interrupted Nigel, We didnt stop anywhere. Only had our own coffee in the car.

Well, something else, then, Linda persisted. The bodys a mystery. Just have some jam, love, itll settle your tummy.

Alice sipped the sweet tea and suddenly had the intrusive thought: Did she wash her hands before adding the jam? Did she ever? But if she kept thinking along those lines, shed go mad. Either accept it, or stay away, she thought.

Linda, Alice said, pushing away her mug, thanks so much for having us, but I really think Id better get back home. Nigel said wed drive today.

So soon? Lindas face dropped. I hadnt even baked a tart, or made that stew you love, Nigel.

Next time, Mum, Nigel stood and kissed her cheek. Alice really isnt well. But Ill come back in a couple of weeks to help Dad with the shed roofyou can feed me then, paint the town red with pies and stews. Agreed?

Linda heaved a sigh, looked from one to the otherAlice could tell Linda had sussed it: the meatballs, the illness, why her daughter-in-law had bailed after dinner.

Fine, have it your way, Linda said, voice suddenly cool. Ill pack a tub of meatballs for you to take. Made plenty, so you wont go hungry at home.

Alice felt the blood rush from her head, but managed a polite, Thank you, Linda. Youre very kind.

They packed quickly. Nigel carried their things to the car while Alice said goodbye to Peter, who shook her hand and wished her better. Linda appeared with a plastic tub and pressed it into Nigels hands.

Thats some meatballsand a jar of jam. And some bacon fatI know you like it. Keep your strength up.

Thanks, Mum, Nigel pecked her on the cheek, and Alice noticed that Linda didnt smilejust nodded briskly and returned indoors before theyd even started the engine.

The car journey home was mostly silent. The tub of meatballs sat in the boot, as if its presence radiated through the fabric of the car seats, heavy and hard to ignore. Nigels jaw was set, his gear changes sharper than usual.

You can eat them if you want, Alice said softly once they reached the edges of town. I dont mind. I just wont.

Nigel sighed, and it seemed to Alice hed aged a decade in the last day. You know Mum knows, dont you?

Knows what? Alice turned in her seat.

Everything. She knows you hardly ate, then you were ill, and then we left a day early. Shes not stupid, Alice. Shes hurt. I understand why.

But do you understand me? Alice shot back.

He didnt reply.

At home, Alice went into their spotless white kitchen, looking at the orderly shelves, her own familiar chopping boards, all washed after every use. Here, she thought, things were safe and clean and only her own hands touched the food.

Nigel carried the tub in, slid it into the freezer, and closed the door.

You really wont have any? he asked.

No, said Alice. Thanks.

He shrugged, then turned for the shower, leaving Alice alone. She went to the sink, picked up the soap, and washed her hands thoroughly, lathering up past her wrists, as if for surgery. Afterward, she dried her hands, staring at the clean, soft towel, and wondered whether you could ever wash away the memory of what youd already seen.

She didnt know.

But she did know this: Never again would she eat anything made by Lindas hands. No amount of persuasion, guilt, or she didnt mean to would ever change that.

Three days later, Nigel fried four of his mums meatballs, served them with mash and gherkin, and sat down at the table.

Want some? he asked, holding out a fork.

No, Alice said. Thank you.

She left him and the plate, settled in the living room, and turned up the telly until she couldnt hear him chewing.

Alice realised that the weekend in the country had changed something between themsomething that might never mend. All because of a hand. Just a womans hand, scratching an itch where it itched.

She closed her eyes. If she didnt think about it, she told herself, life could carry on. If you cook your own food, wash your own hands, and decide what you put in your mouth, perhaps thats enough.

Lesson for the diary: Sometimes, what you know cant be unknownand in marriage, its not always the big things, but the little things, that change everything.