Mother-in-Law Sneakily Stuffed Her Bag with Gourmet Treats from My Fridge Before Leaving

Mother-in-law slipped the delicacies from my fridge into her bag before heading out

It must have happened nearly twenty years ago now, but the memory still makes me wince and smile by turns. It was my husband Edwards thirty-fifth birthday, and Id decided, for once, to truly spoil him and our guests. We lived on the outskirts of Oxford then, in a small house with a cheerful yellow door and a garden that had ambitions far bigger than its size. The plan was simple: a proper English celebration, replete with fine cheeses, smoked meats, and a bottle or two of decent wine.

But as always with family gatherings, things never quite go as planned.

Are you sure we need so much of the sliced meats, Margaret? Edward asked, holding up a vacuum-sealed packet of rare roast ham like it was the Holy Grail. You do realise this costs as much as a flight to Paris?

I kept unpacking the groceries onto the kitchen countera glossy bunch of red peppers, a squat jar of caviar with a gold-topped lid, a substantial wedge of stilton, and two bottles of wine. The scents of fresh bread and smoked food soon filled the warm kitchen.

Edward, its your birthday, I replied. Years have passed, but I remember how deliberate my voice was as I put the milk in the fridge. Thirty-five isnt nothing, you know. Your mates are coming. Your mothers coming. Do you really want to serve only boiled potatoes and tinned sardines? I had a generous bonus from work. Cant I just lay out a table I wont be ashamed of, for once?

He grumbled, but didn’t return the ham, carefully tucking it onto the top fridge shelf as if it were the crown jewels. Just you waitmy mumll be at it again. You know what shes likeWaste of money, shouldnt you be paying down the mortgage, Edward?

Shell moan whatever we do, darling, I said, setting out a salad bowl. Buy fancy food, were spendthrifts. Buy the cheap stuff, we’re paupers. I stopped worrying about her opinion ages ago. The important thing is you and your guests enjoy yourselves. By the way, the Parma ham is the exact one you loved when we went to Florence five years back. Remember?

He grinned, the lines on his face softening for a moment. I doit was delicious. All right, you win. If were doing this, lets go all in. Just take the price labels off everything before Mum sees and faints.

Preparations continued at full steam. Ive always loved cooking, as long as I have the space to move about. But as fate would have it, Edwards motherMrs. Agnes Hardingwas arriving early, to help the girl out. That phrase was enough to set my teeth on edge; her help usually involved sitting squarely in the busiest spot of the kitchen, dishing out unsolicited advice and sniping at everything from my knife skills to the colour of my curtains.

She rang the doorbell punctually at two. Edward dashed to let her in, while I took a deep breath and plastered on my best hostess smile.

And theres the birthday boy! came Mrs. Hardings voice, booming down the hall. Come here, darlinglet me get a good look at you! Youre practically skin and bone, arent you? Thats what comes from living off ready meals, mind.

Mum, honestly, Margaret cooks marvellously, Edward protested, helping her with her heavy wool coat.

Oh, don’t contradict your mother. I can see what I see. Hello, Margaret, dear.

She glided into our kitchen with the force of a battleship navigating the Channel. In her hands, that monstrous shoppers bag she clung to so faithfully.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Harding, I said politely. Lovely to see you. Ive just boiled the kettle; would you like some tea?

Later, darling, she waved me off, plonking her bag on a stool. Brought you both a few little treatsI know you youngsters never have anything in your fridge but the odd packet of crisps.

And she began unloading her offerings: a giant jar of homemade pickled gherkins in cloudy brine, a carrier of battered, home-grown apples, and a little bundle of old-fashioned peppermint creams that looked like theyd survived the Thatcher years.

All home-madeno funny business, she informed us. Those apples are pure vitamin. Chop out the brown bits, make a nice compote. Waste not, want not.

Thank you, I managed, forcing myself not to look at the brine.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Harding was already rummaging in the fridge. It was her routineshe called it checking for space but, as I well knew, it was really a full inspection.

Well, well! she exclaimed, spotting the row of delicacies. Caviar? And two jars? Edward, have you won the lottery, or has Margaret robbed the bank?

I got a bonus at work, Mum, Edward muttered, pilfering a bit of cheese from the board.

Bonus, is it? Of course. You eat caviar while your poor mother struggles to repair the fence at the cottage. Well, its your life. Im just an old woman, dont need much.

She slammed the fridge shut and settled herself squarely in the way.

Lets see what youve cooked up, Margaret. Ill just rest my legsaching something awful. My blood pressures been all over the place, but I couldnt miss my sons birthday. Brave of me, really.

The next three hours followed their usual pattern. I dashed around, chopping, mixing, roasting, while Mrs. Harding critiqued everything I did.

Thats too much mayonnaise, you know. Touch of the palpitations.

Why splash out on fancy bread? The sliced loaf at Tescos just as good and half the price.

You should have tenderised the beef betteritll be tough!

I kept quiet, thinking of nothing but white noise. Just survive until evening.

By six, the guests started to fill the houseEdwards old friends from university, loud and merry, bringing with them laughter and the scent of aftershave. The table groaned with food: roast joints, aubergine rolls stuffed with walnuts, tartlets piled with caviar, the special ham, the trio of cheeses, salads, hot dishes.

When everyone was seated and the first toast made to Edwards health, Mrs. Harding took centre stage.

Eddie, love, she began tearfully, dabbing her eyes. I remember the day you were bornI suffered terribly, two whole days, you know…

The guests endured her birthing story for the umpteenth time, while I nipped a helping of salad.

And look at you nowall grown up. Marriednot quite what I envisioned, but lifes full of surprises, she shot me a look. The main thing is your happiness. Food isnt everything. Margarets tried her best, bought all sorts of fancy things; Id have gone for something a bit simpler, a bit more heartfelt, but thats the world nowadayseverything for show.

She skewered a huge slab of smoked eel, which Id paid a small fortune for from a specialist shop, and tucked in.

Hmm, she mused, chewing fast. Just tastes like fish, really. Salty. Rather fatty. Back in my day, nothing beat a good kipper.

Despite the constant commentary, Mrs. Harding ate heartily, and somehow the choicest morsels vanished into her plate. The ham disappeared at lightning speed. Tartlets with caviar went down like peanuts, punctuated with, Is this even genuine? You can never trust a label these days. Margaret, do show me the jarI want to check whats actually in it, so none of us end up in hospital.

I just smiled and poured more wine for the guests. I noticed Edward turning a shade of pink, but holding his tongue, as was his habit.

The evening rolled on. The food was praised, stories told, university days remembered. Mrs. Harding put in her complaints about the hardship of pensioners and ungrateful children, but the hum of conversation drowned her out.

Just before ten, people began to slip awaywork tomorrow and all that.

Youre a marvel, Margaret! said Edwards best mate, Tom, shaking my hand in the corridor. The eel was off the charts. Thanks!

Glad you enjoyed it, I replied honestly.

Once the last guest had left, the house quietened, with only the clinking of plates interrupting the peace as Mrs. Harding began stacking dishes.

Let me help clear up, she declared. Otherwise youll be at it all night. Edward, take the bins out; theyre overflowing. Margaret, get the leftovers sorted into containers.

A wave of fatigue swept over me, and a low-grade migraine reminded me of its presence.

Mrs. Harding, really, Ill manage. Would you like me to call you a cab?

A cab? she spluttered. You must think I’m made of money! I’m getting the bus; they’re still running. No argumentsIm helping. Youre positively dropping. Freshen up in the loo, take a painkiller. Ill tidy a bit.

I truly didnt feel well. Nausea hovered at the edge of my throat.

All right, I gave in. Just five minutes. Edwardll walk you to the stop.

I headed to our bedroom for some paracetamol, then splashed my face with cold water in the bathroom. The throbbing dulled. I mustnt leave her alone in the kitchen, I thought, half-jokingshell scrub the dishes with my best face cream, or rearrange the pans again.

I tiptoed back with quiet feet, pausing at the doorway.

And there she was, back turned, standing with the fridge wide open. The infamous shoppers bag sat on the stool. She worked very swiftly and methodically, like someone whod done this many times before.

She removed the platter of cold cutsplenty left: slices of expensive ham, roast pork, smoked sausage. She swept them into a waiting plastic bag, knotted it, slipped it into her bag.

I blinked. Was I hallucinating? No.

Next, she fished into the fridge. Out came a containerthe chunk of smoked salmon Id set aside for breakfast, a generous piece. Into the bag.

Then half the remaining home-made Victoria sponge Id baked until late last night. Apparently the cake box was cumbersome, so she wrapped the sponge in foil, squashing it mercilessly.

What else, now? she muttered. Stiltonwell, itll only go hard, theyd waste it.

The wedge of blue cheesedear enoughvanished into the depths next. The jar of olives, and, to my horror, an almost full bottle of expensive cognac, a gift for Edward from his colleagues, unopened, now disappeared.

I leant against the door frame, paralysed. Should I shout? Confront her? Call her a thief? I couldn’t quite bring myself to use such words for Edwards mother, even though thats what was happening.

Just then, Edward came in with a gust of cold air from outside.

Chilly out there! he called. Mum, you ready? I won’t take my coat offIll walk you to the stop.

She jumped, snapped her bag shut, and swung round. She saw me in the doorway and paused, eyes darting, but recovered instantly.

Oh Margaret, youve finished? GoodI was just tidying up. Edwards back? Perfect! Ill get myself together.

She heaved her bag from the stool, grunting at its new, considerable weight.

Mum, let me helpis that bricks in there? Edward looked in, bemused.

Dont touch! she squeaked, clutching it to her chest. Ive just taken my jarsput the gherkins in your saucepan, took my jars and personal things. Dont fuss!

Edward exchanged looks with me.

Mum, what jars? You only brought the one, and its still on the window, untouched.

Other jars! she insisted, her face growing red. Stop pestering! I want to go homeIve slaved over this all day!

I stepped forward, feeling a weird calm.

Mrs. Harding, I said quietly but firmly. Please put your bag on the table.

What? she exclaimed, eyes wide. How dare you! Going to search me, are you? Edward, are you listening to this? Your wife thinks Im a common thief!

Margaret, whats gotten into you? Edward looked back and forth, lost.

Edward, I interrupted, that bag contains our breakfast. And lunch. And dinner for the next two days. Theres salmon in there that I paid thirty-five pounds for. Theres your favourite roast ham. The cognac your colleagues gave you. And cake.

Nonsense! Mrs. Harding shouted, backing away. How dare you say something so vile! Im a retired teacher, Ive never pinched in my life! You can keep your fancy foodI hope it chokes you!

She tried to squeeze past Edward, but the bag caught on the table. The handles gave way, and the contents tumbled out onto the laminate floor.

It was quite a sight.

Ham rolled across the boards. The salmon escaped its wrapping and landed with a slap on Edwards shoe. Foil parted to reveal the squashed sponge. The cognac bottle bounced, but did not break, thank God. Stilton and a handful of mints from the sweet dish tumbled down.

Silence descended, the hum of the fridge and Mrs. Hardings hoarse breathing the only sounds.

Edward surveyed the scene, then stared at the salmon on his foot, then his mothers beetroot-red face. His own slowly twistedconfusion, then comprehension, then something heavy and sticky: shame.

Mum? he managed. Whats all this?

She stood uprightattack the best form of defence.

Whats the harm? she shot back, staring him down. Yes, I took it! You have too much! You throw food out! You’re rich; your fridge’s stuffed. I’m living off a pension and I’ve never tasted this ham except on telly! Dont I get a chance to have nice things? I raised you! I lost sleep for you! How dare you begrudge your own mother a bit of cold meat?

I waited for Edwards reaction. Usually, in moments like these, hed mumble: Alright Mum, take what you want, no bother, just to keep the peace.

He bent down, laid the salmon on the table, then stood the cognac upright.

Mum, he whispered, its not about the food. If youd asked, wed have offered anyway. We always do.

I shouldnt have to beg! she ranted. A mother shouldnt be asking! You should think of it yourself! Youre selfish!

You didnt ask, Edward said gently. You waited until Margaret left the room and just took like a rat.

Rat?! Mrs. Harding clutched her chest in mock agony. My heart! Wheres my pills?

Dont play to the gallery, I said, cool as December. Your pills are in your left pocketI saw when you took your coat off.

She froze.

Edward, I said, please gather everything from the floor into a bag.

Why? he asked.

Give it to your mother. She can have it all. It’s her present for your birthday. And in return, I dont wish to see her in this house for the next month.

Mrs. Harding gasped for breath, like a fish on the sand.

Edward quietly filled a bag with the fallen food, leaving the cognac aside.

The cognac stays, he said. I need a drink.

He handed her the bag.

There you are, Mum. Time to go. I already called you a cabitll be downstairs in two minutes.

Youre throwing me out? Your own mother? Over a bit of food?

Because you lied, Mum. And because youre disrespectful. To my house and my wife.

Mrs. Harding snatched the bag from his hands, eyes glistening with fury.

You wont see me here again! she spat. Live as you please, you stuck-up snobs! May your meat turn to dust!

She stormed into the hall, slamming the door so hard that a little plaster crumbled from the ceiling.

I dropped into a chair, hands covering my face, trembling.

Edward fetched two glasses. He poured us a measure of cognac, setting one before me, taking the other.

Drink, he said. Youve earned it.

I looked up. My husband looked ten years older. He sat facing me and took my hand.

Im sorry, Maggie, he said.

For what? You werent to know.

For not seeing it sooner. For letting her get away with it all these years. Shes my Mumalways thought she was a bit odd but kind hearted. Now I feel guilty, as if I stuffed my own pockets.

I sipped. The cognac stung my throat, but gave strange relief.

You know, I said with a wan smile, the funny part is I bought another stick of salami and a bit of cheddar just for her. Theyre in the bottom of the fridge. She never saw them.

Edward gave a hysterical laugh.

Really?

Really. I knew shed complain about money. I was going to send her home with treats. Properly.

With people like her, I suppose its impossible to do things properly, Edward emptied his glass. Ill change the locks tomorrow. She got her hands on a set last year, just in case. I dont want to come home and find the telly gone, because the lady two doors down has a bigger screen.

I looked at my husband and, for the first time in seven years of marriage, saw him talking frankly about his motherwith no traces of guilt, no attempt to defend her. That fiasco with the delicacies was the last straw, even for gentle Edward.

What shall we eat tomorrow? I asked, scanning the bare table. She took nearly everything.

He checked the fridge.

Weve one jar of caviar she didnt spot. Eggs and milk. Well have an omelette with caviarfeast fit for a lord.

I laughed out loud. The tension started to dissolve.

Weve still got her manky apples too, I reminded him. We could make compote.

No chance, he grimaced. Im binning those. Along with the pickles. Ive had enough home-grown help to last a lifetime.

We sat at that kitchen table late into the night, finishing the cognac and talking about things we hadnt dared discuss before. About boundaries. About how loving parents didnt grant them permission to walk all over us. That, above all, family meant us two.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffeeEdward couldnt boil an egg when we married, but hed learnt. He kissed my head.

Good morning. I was thinking, he said, do you have much of that bonus left?

A bit. Why?

Lets go away next weekendjust us. A country house, or maybe London for a couple of days. Leave all this behind. Turn off our phones.

What about your mum? Shell ring, tell the world were monsters.

She can call who she likes. Thats her decision. Weve made ours. Sit down, breakfast is ready.

Hed made us omelette, gleaming yellow, studded with bright red caviara breakfast not just rich in taste, but free from guilt and anyone elses demands.

Mrs. Harding did call two days later. Edward looked at the screen, sighed, and put the phone face down.

Arent you going to answer? I asked.

No. Let her eat her haul and cool down. Maybe well speak in a month. Right now, something more importantIm taking my wife to the cinema.

I smiled, got dressed. The fridge might have been bare, but I felt lighter than I had in years. And that, I think, is worth all the pilfered delicacies in the world.