The life of a writer brings with it some reasonable degree of danger - that of being pummeled to death by our subjects. It isn’t as romantic as running from the CIA, but I do spend some time looking over my shoulder or peering through the blinds, where I half expect to see an angry mob of well-dressed wives descending upon my lawn.
This mob is, of course, led by my mother-in-law. She times their advance and, in groups of five or six, the women take turns trying to break down my door with the heels of their Manolo Blahniks. Obviously this takes a while, so I pour a cup of tea and watch from the sofa as they each chip a nail and quit in favor of lunch.
I have become increasingly aware of my mother-in-law’s lack of appreciation for me. It’s not easy being the wretch who is ruining her son’s life, and I’d like a little respect. I spent years perfecting the art of wrestling sons from their mothers, after all. While other 12-year-olds were listening to Bon Jovi I was studying mortuary science, and one day someone will excavate my parents’ lawn to find a heap of dismembered Ken parts. As if it isn’t work to saw off all those limbs.
Occasionally my mother-in-law forgets about these skills and challenges me to spar. When she realizes that her Blinding Golden Earring stance is no match for me, she goes into another style of fighting altogether. It’s called Food Warfare. She introduced me to this art the night of my rehearsal dinner where she, well aware of my distinct dislike of lamb, served it and its disgusting green jelly counterpart to our guests. I foolishly thought this choice odd, but benign. Only months later did it occur to me that I’d been played for the first time. The second time was Thanksgiving Dinner (read Vices and Spice Part Deux below), but by this point I began to get wise. My husband and I began making reservations for the meals shared with his parents, where no yams could be laced with either distrust or heavy cream. We even stepped up our offense, bringing wine to each dinner because when tipsy, his mother’s aim is far less true.
But I must concede to her this third, and final, victory.
My husband and I dined with the in-laws last night, and she brought along a batch of homemade cupcakes. My mother-in-law fancies herself quite the baker; I maintain that she is a far better shopper and wish she would use those skills to purchase her baked goods rather than make them. But this was a special occasion and so, in the spirit of kindness, we politely ooed and ahhed at the… what was that… icing?
I generally avoid eating things that cannot be readily identified, especially if these things have a sequined skin that is usually reserved for lizards and various insects. But as a show of good faith, I dug in. Whatever it was left a greasy slick on my tongue that tasted vaguely of petroleum and lingered far into the evening, despite my attempts to douse it with an array of vodka and menthol lozenges.
No, the cupcakes were not sitting right. By the time my husband and I made it into bed, I had spent ample time in the bathroom and was beginning to feel nauseous. I reiterate that there is something about my mother-in-law’s cooking that my body just does not like. Perhaps it is the dash of resentment folded into each bite; or perhaps the amount of plastic surgery the woman has had somehow seeps through her fingers as she cooks, magically bestowing even the most whole, live foods with the shelf life of a twinkie.
Whatever the great, bilious mystery, I applaud her efforts to debilitate me. This is the most calculating she’s done since reducing a recipe by two-thirds. I am sure she is clapping her hands with glee this morning. Certain that I am well incapacitated behind the walls of my home, she phones her friends and rallies the mob into action, instructing them to circle the Mercedes around the block, stilletos in hand, waiting to pounce.
The water’s in the tea kettle, ladies. I’ll be waiting.
