Mother-in-Laws Meatballs
Tom and Alice had been married for three and a half years, and in that time, Alice could count on one hand the number of times shed been to Toms parents house. Usually only for Christmas, Easter, or suchlikequick dash out to their village in Surrey, a couple of polite hours, then straight back to their flat in London.
But now Tom was being unusually insistent: his mum had rung for the third time that week, lamenting that she missed them, that his dad had done his back in fixing the shed roof, that the veg patch was going wild and, frankly, she just didnt have the strength anymore…
Tom, it must be said, was a model sonhe called his mum every Sunday at three oclock sharp, nodded along dutifully even when she was saying things that drove him up the wall. And so there he was, halfway through his tea of beans on toast, looking at Alice with the pleading eyes of a labrador.
Alice, he began, pushing aside his plate with the gravity of a man declaring war, Mum called again. She says we must have forgotten what she looks like. Let’s go visit this weekend? Just two nights, honestly. Please?
Tom, Ive got an appointment for my hair on Saturday… Alice tried, though she knew it was pathetic.
Oh, just move it, Tom replied in that annoyingly breezy tone, as if one could simply rearrange such delicate calendarings. You know shell get all upset otherwiseand shes promising to make her special meatballs and even bake a Victoria sponge. She says shes missed us.
And your dad? Is his back feeling any better? Alice asked, just to sound like she cared, even though her relationship with her father-in-law was best described as inoffensively bland.
Hell survive, Tom shrugged. He always thinks hes at deaths door. Anyway, Im set on itwe’re going. Drive down Friday night, head back Sunday. Ill let Mum know, itll make her week.
Alice sighed, but she knew resistance was futile. After three and a half years, shed learnt that arguing with Tom once his mind was made up was about as fruitful as explaining Instagram to a goldfish.
Come Friday, they crammed a bag of clothes and a bundle of supermarket bits and bobs in the boot. Tom had bought his mum a fluffy throw and a bottle of whisky for his dad. The drive out past Croydon took about two hours, provided they dodged the M25s usual traffic Armageddon.
Alice gazed thoughtfully out the window at the rolling fields and roadside cafes with names like Greasy Spoon and Pie Palace. Tom hummed tunelessly along to Heart FM, and Alice tried to convince herself it would be fine. Three days wasnt forever. Plus, Toms mum Janet was, on the whole, a kind soul.
They arrived well after dark. Toms parents house was perched at the end of a sleepy cul-de-sac, the porch singularly illuminated by a yellowy lamp. Tom swung into the gravel drive, cut the engine, and immediately the front door burst open, a flood of light and the unmistakable form of Janet small and cheerfully round in a bright, flowered apron, grinning as if her face might crack.
Tommy! she shrieked across the lawn, launching herself towards her son whod barely stepped from the car. I was starting to think you werent coming! Ive been cooking since dawnyou have no idea what Ive whipped up! Alice, love, come in, dont just stand there freezing!
Alice climbed out, adjusted her coat, arranged her polite daughter-in-law smile and allowed herself to be enveloped. Janet smelled powerfully of fried onions and something sickly sweet, making Alices nose itch.
Inside was sweltering. The smells were overwhelming. Something sizzled ominously from the kitchen. A plate of sliced ham, bread, pickled onions, a jar of Tiptree jam, and half a loaf of wholemeal was already on the dining table. Toms dad, George, sat glued to the news, but rose to shake hands.
Good to see you, he said, eyeing their overnight bag like it might bite him. Come in, coat off, make yourselves at home.
Ive done you some of my meatballs! Janet declared immediately, bustling round the kitchen with an energy that threatened to topple the teapot. With mash and gravyTommy, theyre your absolute favourite, arent they?
Course, Mum, you know they are, Tom replied, already nosying in saucepans, much to Janets evident pride.
Alice peeled off her coat, hung it in the narrow hallway and followed into the kitchen. Janets kitchen was a riot of jam jars, pots of herbs, spice tins, old cookbooks, and enough tea towels to supply the WI.
Sit yourself down, Alice, Janet insisted, dabbing at a chair with her apron. You must be wiped from the drive. Ill just finish these in a jiff.
She whirled about, grabbing a plate, shoving it back, opening the ovenout wafted a plume of meaty aroma, delicious enough to make Alices stomach pinch. Theyd only had tepid service station coffee all day, so actual food was more than welcome.
Then Alice noticed Janet at work.
Janet stood at the counter, a bowl of raw mince at her elbow. A proper mountain of greyish-pink meat, with about fifteen perfectly shaped meatballs lined up methodically on a tray, dusted with breadcrumbs. Janet pinched off another clump, rolled it briskly, squashed it down, thenwithout a flickerslipped the same hand, greasy and glistening from the mince, straight up under her left armpit.
She didnt do a small, accidental scratch, either. No, Janet gave her pit a thorough going-over with her entire palm, a sort of deep, beatific rummage, before returning that same hand immediately to squishing the next meatball.
Alices stomach heaved.
She watched Janets hand perfectly ordinary, short-nailed, wedding-banded, a tangle of veins and wrinklesmove from armpit to mince. Mince that would soon be their dinner.
Those meatballs had come to Alice and Tom frozen in ziplock bags before. Theyd fried them up at home, eaten, praised, even told Janet over the phone they were magic. Which, Alice had to admit, wasnt even a liethey really did taste amazing…
Mum, is there any tea? Tom called from the lounge. Were frozen after that drive!
In a sec, darling! Im just finishing off these meatballs! Janet replied blithely, giving another enthusiastic go at the tray.
Alice blinked and swore she could see faint grey smudges where Janets hand had pressed the wooden board… Or maybe the motion had just got to her. Alice shook her head. Now it all looked perfectly normaljust a kindly mum, a tray of uncooked meatballs, a pair of busy hands.
Janet, would you like some help? Alice ventured, steeling herself as if volunteering for a firing squad. Shall I finish these, and you go put the kettle on?
Oh heavens, no, love! Janet nearly shrieked, sending breadcrumbs flying. Youre a guest, you must sit and put your feet upyou poor thing!
To prove her point, Janet handled the last lump of mince, shaped a perfect meatball, placed it among the others, then took a brief glance at her handsnodded in satisfactionran them under the tap for all of three seconds (no soap), flicked water about, and wiped them on her apron.
Alice watched, a pit of dismay opening in her gut.
She tried to reason with herselfwhats the harm, really? Who hasnt had a quick scratch now and again? Her own granny used to stir cake batter with one hand while pinning up stray hair with the other, and everyone lived to eighty. Maybe she was just being precious…
Still, her mind replayed the moment on repeathand, armpit, hand, mince.
Dinner was served on a table covered in a plastic floral cloth. Janet plonked down a sizzling pan of meatballsgolden, crisp, the kind that could make a grown man weep with joy under normal circumstances. Alongside was buttery mash, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, pickles, jam. The smell alone should have made Alices mouth water. Instead, it filled her with dread.
Tuck in, lovebirds! Janet declared, sliding the meatballs right in front of Alice. Alice, take these first, theyre the crispiestI did them just for you.
The meatballs looked absolutely fine. Crisp, brown, faintly spiced. Tom piled two on his plate, added a mound of mash, cucumber, and then moaned with pleasure after the first bite.
Blimey, Mum! As good as ever!
Thank the Lord, Janet beamed, popping one onto her own plate and tearing off a chunk of crusty bread. I was sure Id cocked up the seasoning this time.
Sall spot on, Tom mumbled, words muffled by meatball. Youre a genius.
George, for his part, just ate, approving occasionally with a grunt. Reserved man, Georgelongest speech Alice had ever heard from him concerned an unfortunate incident with an oil filter.
Alice, my love, arent you eating? Janet looked genuinely anxious at Alices untouched plate. Is it not to your taste? Have I overdone it?
No, really, its lovely, Alice rushed, sensing a diplomatic incident brewing if she didnt at least try. Just the drives knocked me about a bit, my tummys gone funny. Ill have a little, just slowly.
She took a fork, snapped off the tiniest crumb of meatball from the outermost edge where the crust was thickestif bacteria can survive frying, good luck to them!brought it to her lips and, forced by necessity, swallowed bravely. The taste was deliciousoniony, peppery, the very taste of Janets kitchen. But with the mental image of Janets underarm still vivid, Alice felt the morsel lodge halfway down, and had to force it down with a slug of water.
Lovely, honestly, she croaked, nudging her plate away. Janet, could I just stick to mash and some cucumber? Meatballs brill, but honestly, the drives done me in.
Oh, darling, Janet crooned, course you can, have you as much mash as you want. Ill wrap up some meatballs for you to take home. Made loadsthought you two might arrive half starved.
Tom shot her a quick look and continued to demolish his plate with the cheery indifference of a man blissfully unafraid of bacteria or armpit hair.
Alice picked at her food, eating mash and cucumber, trying to reason with herself. People have been eating home-cooked food for centuries without all dying of food poisoning. Surely she was being oversensitive Yet her brain couldnt unsee that hand.
After they finished, Janet shooed everyone from the table and busied herself in the kitchen. Tom disappeared out to the shed with his dad to investigate some disaster involving a lawnmower. Alice found herself alone at the kitchen table as Janet made tea in a large chipped pot.
Dont take it the wrong way, Alice, me nagging you down here, Janet said, pouring scalding tea into mismatched mugs. I do worry about you young ones in your city livesbusy, busy, always working. Your poor mums are left to wonder how youre getting on.
Were fine, Janet, really we are. Just work and homeyou know, the usual.
Janet smiled fondly. I know you like my meatballs, love. Tom always says so, wants me to send him back to London with a freezer bag stuffed to the brim. Supermarket ones are all chemicals, and I make everything myselfproper meat from the butcher, not that mystery stuff.
Alice scalded her tongue on the tea and almost retched againher mind flitting to which hands had washed those mugs, prepared the leaves, muddled in the milk. She set the mug down and forced herself to breathe.
Would you mind if I headed up to bed early? Alice said, feigning tiredness. Think the drive’s caught up with me.
Course, dear. Fresh sheets in the spare room, Tomll sort you out. Shout if you need anything.
Alice made her way to the tiny guest room, shut the door, perched on the bed, and realised she was about to be sick. A dramatic dash to the loo and a quiet moment of existential reflection ensued.
Tom returned later to find her curled up, looking like shed been through a minor trauma.
Whats the matter? he asked, sitting beside her. You feeling rough?
Tom Alice fixed him with terrified eyes. Please just listen and dont laugh.
Go onwhats up?
She explainedevery grim detail: the hand, the scratch, the mince, the horror. Speaking quietly, just in case Janet was listening through the paper-thin wall.
Toms face contorted into a mix of disbelief, irritation, and the facial equivalent of buffering.
Look, he replied after a pause, Mum didnt do it on purpose. Honestly, whats a little scratch? Its not like she spat in the mince. Our grandmas never used to wash their hands after every sneezethis is just how it is. Its reality, Alice, not MasterChef.
She didnt wash her hands, Tom, Alices voice trembled despite her effort to stay calm. She went straight from armpit to meatball. And she never uses soap, just a quick rinse and a wipe on the apron. I keep thinking of all those frozen meatballs shes sent usI cant do it anymore.
So what, we stage an intervention? You want to tell her shes unsanitary? Shed be mortifiedshe cooks for us, for love.
I dont want to say anything, Tom. I just cant eat them ever again. Im sorry.
Toms jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hairthe prelude to a proper sulk.
Alice, youre making this a massive deal. People scratch, people cook, the world keeps turning. It’s not a sterile operating theatre. If you keep fixating, youll drive yourself mad.
I wash my hands, Tom. Every time.
He glowered. Congrats. Mums always cooked this way. I grew up on her meatballsIm fighting fit.
I didnt know before. Now I do, and I cant forget it.
Well, tough then. He huffed. She didnt scratch her backside, did she? You never see whats happening in restaurant kitchens. And you still eat out.”
Can we not do the restaurant comparison? That doesn’t help.
Alright. He sighed, rubbing his temples. Just dont eat, then. Ill say youre illdodgy belly from something on the drive. But please dont mention anything. Mums proper sensitive.
I wont say a wordI just want to go home.
Well go home tomorrow. Ill tell Mum your temperatures shot up and we have to be off. Is that okay?
Alice mumbled her agreement, though everything felt anything but okay.
She lay down, Tom turned off the light, and they listened to the distant drone of TV, the coughs of George, the clatter of Janets endless tidying.
Alice stared at the ceiling, thinking bitterly about three and a half years of eating Janets meatballs, blissfully unaware of their questionable hygiene journey. She remembered asking for the recipe, marveling at the flavour, lavishly praising Janet for her secret ingredient. Now, she couldnt shake the suspicion that perhaps the secret was simply… proximity to armpit.
In the morning, Alice woke with a pounding head. Tom was already up, sipping tea with his parents in the kitchen. She braced herselfa day hiding from meatballs and forced pleasantries.
Morning, Alice love! Janet called. Tom says you were rough last night? Ill make you a nice cup of tea with honey from our own bees!
Alice tried not to look at the meatballs from yesterday, still sitting proudly on a plate beneath a net lid.
Thank you, Janet. I think Im feeling better nowprobably just one of those things I picked up en route.
Those greasy spoon cafes, Janet clucked, plonking down tea and a fresh jar of jam. I always tell George to wait and eat at home, but will he listen? Now look!
Mum, we didnt stop anywhere. Just had our own flask of tea, Tom interjected.
Well, must be something else thenyour insides, you know. You just tuck in, love, and Ill make up some food for the journey.
Alice sipped her tea and wondered idly about the handwashing habits of her mother-in-law. She realised if she kept going down this path, madness awaited, and resolved to either get over it or avoid future visits.
Janet, we probably should head back today I think Ill recover better at home.
Janet looked genuinely crestfallen. So soon? I planned to bake a cake and do a lamb hotpot for you. Tom loves my hotpot.
Next time, Mum, Tom soothed, pecking her on the cheek. Alice isnt right, and shell be more comfortable at home. But Ill be back soonI’ll help Dad with the shed, and you can feed me up properly then.
Janet sighed, gave Alice a long, strange looklike she understood everything: the uneaten meatballs, the overnight illness, the hasty departure.
If you insist, Janet said, her tone suddenly dry. Ill pack up some meatballs and a bit of my chutney. Theres plenty in the freezeryou wont go hungry.
Alice felt her colour drain, but managed a thank you.
The goodbyes were suitably brisk. Janet thrust several frozen packages into Toms hands. Meatballs and some of my bramble jelly. Eat up, keep your strength up.
Thanks, Mum, Tom said, but Janet didnt smileshe just nodded, then disappeared indoors.
The drive back was spent in silence. The parcel of meatballs weighed down the boot as if Alice could feel every gram. Toms hands were white on the steering wheel; his mood, somewhere between resentful and resigned.
You can eat them, Alice murmured as they pulled back into their road. I just cant.
Do you realise Mum knows exactly whats going on? Tom replied, exhaling as if hed been digging ditches all day.
Oh?
Shes not daft. She saw you not eating. Then you were ill. Then we fled at dawn. She put two and two togetherand shes hurt. You should know that.
And what about me? Alice snapped.
He didnt answer.
Back at home, Alice surveyed her spotless kitchenclean boards, everything in its right place, hands thoroughly washed before meals. Here, she felt safe. Here, her food preparation standards were unchallenged.
Tom put the meatballs straight in the freezer.
Youre not going to eat them, are you? Alice asked.
I am, Tom shot back defiantly. Theyre my mums. I grew up on them.
He stalked off to take a long, furious shower. Alice stood at the sink, scrubbing her hands vigorouslyup to the elbows with warm water and soap like a surgeon. When finished, she wondered: does any of this truly matter, once its burned into memory?
One thing was certainno force on earth could persuade her to eat another of Janets meatballs ever again.
Three days later, Tom fried up four for supper, did the mash, cut up a pickled onion, and sat down to eat.
Want one? He offered a forkful to Alice.
No, thanks, she replied and settled in the armchair with the TV blaringjust enough to drown out the sounds of someone thoroughly enjoying an armpit-enhanced meatball.
Alice realised this trip had changed something permanently between her and Tom. All over a handa perfectly ordinary handthat simply scratched where it itched.
She closed her eyes and resolved never to think about it again. As long as she cooked for herself, shed be fine. Shed just politely decline anything made by someone elses hands ever again.
