**”A Week’s Worth of Sausage—or How My Mother-in-Law Decided We Eat Too Much”**
That sweltering July morning, Eleanor Margaret had been cleaning the windows, fluffing the pillows, and reminding her daughters that it was high time she and Alex paid a visit to the countryside—the blackcurrants were ripe. Diana tried to excuse herself—work, errands, the kids—but her mother was as insistent as ever.
“Summer’s nearly over, and you’re still rotting away in the city!” she huffed over the pie. “The berries will go to waste, the potatoes will sprout, and you’ll still be glued to your phone!”
They settled on coming over that weekend—help in the garden, and of course, unwind in the evening.
Alex wasn’t keen on going. Their last visit had ended badly, and he hadn’t forgotten. All he’d done was ask for a bit of sausage to go with the shepherd’s pie—and his mother-in-law, quite literally, had refused. So sharply, in fact, he’d nearly choked in surprise.
By Saturday morning, they were on the road. The work was done quickly—blackcurrants picked, sorted, and packed away. Now, surely, came the reward: a relaxed dinner, good company. After a shower, Alex wandered into the kitchen. Diana and her mother were setting the table. The scent of shepherd’s pie filled the air. To tide himself over, he opened the fridge, grabbed a stick of sausage, and was about to make a sandwich when—
“Don’t you dare!” Eleanor’s voice cracked like a whip.
The sausage was back in the fridge before he could blink. Alex froze, baffled.
“What’s all this, Mum?” Diana asked, just as confused.
“Sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not now—you’ll ruin your appetite for the shepherd’s pie!” she snapped.
Alex sat down, took a bite—only to find no meat in the dish. He asked, just once more, for a slice of sausage. Another refusal.
“Why do you keep harping on about it?” Eleanor scoffed. “You’ve already had half the pack! Do you know how much that costs? That’s meant to last the week!”
Alex pushed his plate away. His appetite was gone. He stood, walked outside. Diana joined him later. He was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“Let’s go home. I can’t stay here. She watches every move like I’m stealing from her. God forbid I spread an extra bit of butter—she’ll snatch it from my hands.”
“There isn’t even a shop here,” Diana said weakly. “Just a mobile grocer once a week.”
“We should’ve brought groceries, not just pears and plums!” Alex muttered. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll come back for you later. I won’t last long without proper meat.”
“We’ll go together,” Diana said firmly.
And they did. Diana lied, saying Alex had been called back to work. Eleanor saw them off with a sour look.
Nearly a year passed. They didn’t visit. But Eleanor came to them—often. And oddly enough, she treated their fridge like her own, taking whatever she pleased without a word. Even Alex joked about it:
“Look at that—sausage! Guess it’s fair game here…”
But come spring, the calls started again:
“So, when are you coming? The garden won’t wait.”
At first, Alex resisted. Then Diana suggested a trick:
“We’ll bring our own food. Then Mum won’t tally up every bite.”
Alex agreed—on one condition: a supermarket stop on the way. And so they stood at the cottage door once more, arms full of bags.
“What’s this? More plums?” Eleanor pursed her lips—until she peeked inside and saw cheese, bacon, sausages. She hesitated.
“Now you won’t have to count how many grams I eat,” Alex smirked.
Eleanor scoffed but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she whispered to Diana:
“It’d be nice if you always brought supplies. Easier for me, less tension for you.”
Diana nodded silently. It was equal parts irritating and absurd. But most importantly—Alex was willing to come back. Even if it meant packing the car with groceries. No more rows, no more lectures. And as it turned out, that too was its own sort of family harmony.
