Oh, youll love this oneits called *A Weeks Worth of Sausage: When My Mother-in-Law Counts Our Bites*.
So, there we were in the middle of July, and Margaret Thompson was scrubbing windows, fluffing cushions, and nagging her daughter to visit the countrysidethe garlic was ready to harvest. Emily tried to explain: work, commitments, the kids But her mum, stubborn as ever, wouldnt take no for an answer.
Summers nearly over, and youre all cooped up in your flat in London! she snapped over the phone. The strawberries will go to waste, the potatoes will sprout, and youre just glued to your phones!
In the end, they settled on a weekendjust long enough to help in the garden and have a quiet evening.
Now, James? He *really* didnt fancy the trip. Their last visit had ended badly, and he still felt sore about it. All hed asked for was a bit of sausage to go with the Sunday roastbut his mother-in-law outright refused. So bluntly it left him speechless.
Come Saturday, they set off early. They worked like troopers: the garlic was pulled, sorted, packed away. Then came the evening, dinner, the usual family small talk. James showered and wandered into the kitchen. Emily and her mum were setting the table. The smell of roast beef filled the air. To tide himself over, James opened the fridge, grabbed a few slices of sausage for a quick sandwichwhen suddenly
Dont touch that! Margarets voice cracked like a whip.
The sausage went straight back in the fridge. James froze, stunned.
Whats the matter, Mum? Emily asked, baffled.
That sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not before. And dont ruin your appetite! her mum said sharply.
James ate the roast, but not a scrap of meat was on his plate. He asked for a bit of sausage. Another refusal.
Why this obsession? Margaret huffed. Youve already eaten half of it! Do you know how much that costs? Its meant to last the week!
James pushed his plate away, appetite gone. He walked out, flopped onto the garden bench, and stared at the sky. Emily joined him later.
Lets go home. I cant stand this. Every move is watched like Im a thief. Im scared to butter my toast too thick in case she snatches it from me.
Theres not even a proper shop here, Emily muttered. Just the greengrocers van on Thursdays.
We shouldve brought our own food instead of cherries and plums, James grumbled. Im leaving tomorrow. Ill come back for you later because, without proper meat, I wont last long.
Well leave together, Emily said firmly.
Next morning, they drove back to London. Emily lied to her mum, saying James had a work emergency. Margaret watched them go, lips pressed tight.
A year passed. They hadnt set foot in Margarets house. But *she* had no problem visiting themand, oddly enough, shed rummage through their fridge like it was hers, taking whatever she pleased. James even laughed about it:
Look at her, helping herself to the sausage! Funny how *here*, shes got all the rights
But come spring, the calls started again:
So, when are you coming? The garden wont wait forever.
James resisteduntil Emily had an idea:
Lets bring our own food. That way, Mum cant ration us.
James agreedon one condition: a detour to the supermarket. And there they were, back at the countryside house, arms full of shopping bags.
Whats all this? More plums? Margaret said, pursing her lips. But as she dug through the bags, she found cheese, meat, sausage and went quiet.
Now you wont have to count how many grams Im eating, James smirked.
Margaret scoffed but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she whispered to Emily:
Itd be nice if you brought supplies every time. Easier for me, less stress for you.
Emily nodded, torn between irritation and amusement. But the important thing? James was willing to come back. With groceries, sure. But no arguments, no lectures. And when you think about it, thats its own kind of family happiness.
