Mother-in-Laws Meatballs
Mark and Emily have been married for three and a half years now, and in all that time, Emily could count on one hand how many times shes visited Marks childhood home in a small town outside Oxford. Only for holidays, reallyand even then, just for a couple of hours before heading back to their flat in the city.
But suddenly, Mark is insistent: his mother has called for the third time this week, moaning that she misses them, that his father put his back out fixing the shed roof, that the vegetable patch is overgrown and neither of them have the energy anymore…
Marks always been a dutiful soncalls his mum every Sunday at half past six sharp, nods along even if she rambles about things he doesnt agree with. Now, hes sitting at their little kitchen table, eating pasta and sausages, gazing pleadingly at his wife.
Em, Mark says finally, pushing his plate aside and clasping his hands together. Mum called again. Says she reckons were starting to forget what she looks like. How about we go down this weekend? Just three days. Please?
Mark, Ive got my hairdressers appointment on Saturday, Emily attempts to object, though she knows its a weak excuse.
Reschedule it, Mark dismisses, waving a hand as if its the simplest thing in the world. You know how Mum gets. She says shell make tonnes of meatballs, bake pies, the lot. Shes missed us.
What about your dads back? Emily asks, mainly for politeness, since her relationship with Marks dad, John, is perfectly cordial but not close.
Hes fine, nothing can keep him down, Mark shrugs. Hes always got something wrong with him. Look, its settledwell drive down Friday evening, back on Sunday. Ill let Mum knowitll make her day.
Emily sighs. Theres no point arguing when Marks set on somethingshe learned that within the first year of marriage. Trying to change his mind is about as useful as persuading a cat not to scratch the furniture.
Friday evening, they load up the car: a weekend bag, a few treats for his parentsMark has bought his mum a plush blanket and his dad a bottle of brandy. From London to the village is just under two hours if the roads are clear.
Emily looks out the window at the hedgerows and endlessly passing roundabouts, half-listening to Mark singing along to the radio, hoping, just maybe, the weekend wont be so bad. Three days isnt much, after all. And his mum is, at heart, a kind woman.
They pull up after dark. The house is at the end of a quiet street, the front porch lit by a single lamppost. Mark steers onto the gravel drive and, engine off, immediately the porch light flickers on, the front door flies open, and out barrels Margaretshort and round, floral apron, beaming with a smile so wide Emily wonders how her face can bear it.
Marky! she yells, rushing over to her son as he barely makes it out of the car. I was starting to think youd changed your minds! Ive been cooking all daypies, stews, you wouldnt believe! Emily, my love, come in, dont stand in the cold!
Emily climbs out, adjusts her jacket, musters a polite smile, and allows herself to be enveloped by her mother-in-laws squeeze. Margaret is fragrant with fried onions and a sweet, oddly cloying undertone that makes Emilys nose itch.
Inside, its sweltering and thick with the smell of home cooking. From the kitchen comes the sound of something sizzling in a pan. The big table in the living room is already set with slices of ham, pickled onions, a jar of raspberry cordial, and a half-loaf of brown bread. John, Marks dad, is in his chair watching the news but stands to greet themworry written across his tired face, probably about the traffic, the hour, the usual fuss.
Well, youre here, he says, shaking Marks hand and giving Emily a nod. Evening, love. Hang your coats up, well eat in a minute.
Ive made you lot a proper batch of meatballs, Margaret calls out, bustling about, rearranging dishes for no particular reason. With potatoes, gravy, the works. Marky, you love my meatballs, dont you?
I do, Mum, you know I do, Mark says, already on his way to the kitchen, peering into the pots and pans, earning himself an extra glow of maternal pride.
Emily slips off her coat, hangs it in the hallway, and follows. Margarets kitchen is tiny but homey, if your definition of homey is every inch of space packed with jars of homemade jam, spice tins, tea towels, cereal bags, and more bowls than any two people could possibly need.
Sit down, dear. You must be tired after the drive. Dont you worry, dinners almost done.
Margaret spins, grabs a plate, puts it back, then opens the oventhe blast of roast meat makes Emily swallow with unexpected hunger. All theyd had on the journey was Thermos coffee; dinner had never happened.
Then Emily sees it.
Margaret is at the table, where a large mixing bowl of raw mince sits. Theres a mountain of pale-pink mixture, and fifteen or so meatballs already shaped, arranged neatly on a board, dusted with breadcrumbs. With practiced ease, Margaret grabs another handful, rolls it into a ball, flattens itand then, without pause, pushes the same hand straight into her left armpit.
Not a casual scratch or passing rub. She dives infull hand, confidently, as if searching for something lost. With a look of clear relief, she scratches, fidgets for a few seconds, then, with that exact same, unwashed, un-wiped hand, goes back to shaping the next meatball.
A wave of nausea hits Emily.
She cant stop staring at Margarets handan ordinary womans hand, short nails, plain wedding band squeezed onto a swollen finger, webbed with tiny wrinkles. That hand just went under an armpit, and now its sunk into the raw mince. Mince that is now, in a few minutes, going to become dinner.
Margaret has been sending Mark and Emily home with stacks of these frozen meatballs for agestheyd fry them up, eat, even call to thank her for the magic recipe. Magic, indeedthe taste really was delicious…
Mum, Mark calls from the living room, Got any tea? Were chattering.
In a sec! Just finishing up here, dinner will be ready soon.
Margaret scoops up another pile of mince. Emily swears there are faint smudges, little grey streaks on the chopping board, right where Margarets hand rests, or maybe shes just imagining it. She blinks, and everything looks as it didboard, mince, meatballs, busy hands.
Mrs. Hobson, Emily manages quietly, Can I give you a hand? Ill finish those and you pop the kettle on.
Oh, love, thats not for guests! Sit yourself down, have a rest before dinner. Nearly finished, anyway.
Margaret proves her point: one last scoop, another neat meatball in line. Satisfied, she runs her hands under the tap for all of three secondsno soap, just quick rinse. Then wipes them on her apron.
Emily watches this in horror.
She tries to reason with herself. So what? The woman only scratched her armpit. Emilys own gran, rest her soul, used to bake cakes, pausing to fix her hairnobody died. Maybe shes being unreasonable…
Except now the image is burned into her brain: hand, armpit, hand, mince.
Supper is laid in the lounge, the table covered in a cheerful daisy-patterned vinyl cloth. Margaret brings in a sizzling pan of freshly fried meatballsgolden, crisped, the sort that should make anyone ravenous. But Emilys mouth fills with saliva for the wrong reason. Theres mashed potatoes, gravy, sliced tomatoes and cucumber, bread, home-pickled onions, cordial.
Tuck in, dears! Margaret chirps, pushing the plate of meatballs toward Emily. These ones are the best, Emily, just for you.
Emily stares at them. They lookand smellperfect: crisp crust, fried onion, herby beef. Mark shovels two onto his plate, mounds up mash, slices some cucumber, and eats the first bite with obvious pleasure.
Mmm, Mum, he says through a mouthful, Brilliant. Youre the best.
Thank goodness, Margaret beams, settling opposite Emily, pulling a meatball onto her own plate, tearing off some bread. I was worried Id forgotten they way you like them.
All good, Mum. You always cook best, Mark declares happily, helping himself to another.
John quietly munches away, occasionally nodding his approval. Hes never been much for words, and Emily knows the longest thing hes ever said in her company is a story about changing car oil.
Emily, arent you eating? Margaret asks, her eyes darting from Emilys barely touched plate. Dont you like them, love? Put too much salt, have I?
No, honestly, its lovely, Emily forces, aware the sulks will start if she doesnt at least try. Its just the journeyIm a bit off, my stomachs… you know? Ill have a nibble.
She breaks off the smallest corner of a meatballthe extra crispy edgeand brings it to her lips. It smells divine, but the thought of mince being kneaded by that armpit-scratching hand makes her gag. She swallows somehow, but it sticks in her throat and she has to fight not to be sick.
Delicious, she manages, nudging the plate away. Mrs. Hobson, might I just have potatoes? And an extra bit of cucumber. Meatballs lovely, but Im not up for much this evening.
Oh, bless your heart, Margaret frets. Have some mash, Ill pack some meatballs for you to take home. Ive made a whole batch, just for you two.
Mark glances at her, shrugs, keeps eating. Emily pokes at her mash and eats a few slices of cucumber, trying to convince herself shes just overtired, that everyone has their little quirks. Millions of people eat food from their mothers kitchens, and no one dies. Yet, in her head, all she sees is that hand going under that arm.
After dinner, Margaret clears the table. Mark goes out to the garage with his dad, talking about the generator. Emily remains in the kitchen, with Margaret busying around with the teapotthe good one, with a chipped spout.
Emily love, I hope you dont mind me pushing for a visit. I just worry, you know? City life, all that. But a mothers heart aches. I want to see for myself youre doing well.
Alls fine, Mrs. Hobson, Emily says, taking a mug of tea. Work, house, all the usual.
Thank goodness. Margaret sits, propping her head on her hand, and regards Emily closely. I know you love my meatballs. Mark always begs for a frozen batch. You cant get anything like it in the cityall chemicals there. I get my meat at the market, from people I know. Grind it myself, dont trust shop mince.
Emily sips the tea and immediately feels the queasiness return. She thinks about those hands, what theyve done, and quietly puts the mug down.
Mrs. Hobson, would you mind if I went to the room? Ive got a bit of a headache, long drive and all that.
Go on, love. Theres clean sheets in the cupboard; Mark knows where to find them. If you need anything, just call down.
Emily leaves, finds the little guest room, shuts the door, and perches on the bed, certain shes about to be sick.
She barely makes it down the hall to the loo before losing what little shes eaten, then sits for ages, breathing, trying to settle herself.
Mark later finds her still hunched on the bed, gazing blankly into space.
You alright? he asks, sitting next to her. Is it really that bad?
Mark, Emily says, wide-eyed, I need to tell you something, and you have to promise not to laugh or shout.
Go on then, Mark frowns.
She tells him everything: hand, armpit, raw mince, meatballs, the nausea. She whispers to be sure no one else hears.
Marks face is impossible to readdisbelief, annoyance, maybe confusion.
Look, Mark says after a pause, Mum didnt mean anything by it. Everyone scratches. Our grans and mums never washed their hands every single time. People have eaten this way foreverits proper home cooking.
She didnt wash her hands, Mark. She went right back in with the same hand! She didnt use soap, just a quick rinse and wiped them dry. All those meatballs shes sent us over yearsI dont think I can eat them ever again.
So what should we do? Tell her shes disgusting? Shell be mortified. Shes doing it for us!
Im not going to say anything to her. I just… can never eat her food again.
Mark stands, annoyed, ruffling his haira classic sign hes getting wound up.
Em, youre overdoing it. Everyone gets itchy sometimes. This isnt a hospital, its just a kitchen. If you start obsessing, youll go mad.
I always wash my hands, Emily says quietly. I wont stop doing that. I cant pretend its fine now that I know.
Well, good for you, Mark mutters, and now she knows hes not on her side. But my mums always cooked this way. Ive eaten these meatballs all my life and Im strong as an ox. You used to say they were brilliant.
I didnt know before. Now I do, and I cant un-know it.
Fine, Mark huffs. Dont eat them then. Ill tell her youre a bit unwell, need your own food. Just dont say anythingyou know how she is.
I wont, Emily whispers, though she feels awful.
She flops on the bed, Mark switches off the light, and they lie in silence, the distant drone of the telly, the occasional cough from John, the low clink of Margarets washing up in the kitchen barely filtering through.
Emily stares at the ceiling, thinking about how shes eaten frozen meatballs for over three years, never knowing whose hands had shaped them. She remembers every time she praised Margaret for her recipe, the times shed genuinely marvelled at the taste. Now, she wonders if the secret ingredient all along was something shed rather forget.
The next morning, Emily wakes up defeated. Marks already in the kitchen with his parents, chatting over tea and toast. She delays, but knows she cant hide forever.
She washes her face in the freezing bathroom and heads in.
Oh, sorry, love! Margaret exclaims. Mark says you were poorly last night? Bit of a temperature? How about a nice hot tea with raspberry jam? Itll do wonders.
Thank you, Mrs. Hobson, Emily sits, avoiding the sight of those leftover meatballs under a net on the sideboard. Im better now. Mustve eaten something dodgy on the road.
Oh, those motorway cafésI always warn John theyll poison him, Margaret shakes her head, sliding a mug and a half-used jar of jam towards Emily. Much safer to eat at home, but you young ones never listen.
Mum, we only had coffee in the car, Mark interjects.
Well, who knows what it was then? Margaret isnt to be dissuaded. Bodies are complicated. But have some jam, love, itll fix you up.
Emily sips, then wondersdid Margaret wash her hands, making this tea? She knows if she keeps thinking like this shell lose her mind. She needs to either accept it or never come back.
Mrs. Hobson, Emily says, setting her mug down, Thank you so much for having us, but I think I really ought to go home. Mark said we could head back today.
So soon? Margarets face drops. Youve only just come! I was going to bake you pies, make cabbage soup. Marky loves my soup.
Next time, Mum, Mark soothes, kissing her cheek. Emilys still not right. Ill come back in a couple of weeks, help Dad with the roof, and you can fill me up with soup and pies then, alright?
Margaret sighs, glances first at Emily, then at Mark, then back againand in that look Emily senses a flash of something chilly: perhaps Margaret understands more than she lets onabout the meatballs, the armpit, and just why her daughter-in-law got ill after supper.
Well, as you wish, Margaret says, her tone drier now. Ive packed some meatballs for you. Enough to last a week in the freezer.
Emily feels her colour drain, but manages a strained, Thank you. Thats very kind.
They pack quickly. Mark shoves the bags into the car while Emily says goodbye to John, who shakes her hand and mutters, Get well soon, love. Come again when youre better. Margaret hands Mark a carrier bag.
Heres the meatballs, she says, Some jam, too. And my own baconyou like that. Eat it up.
Thanks, Mum. Mark kisses her cheek. Emily notices Margaret doesnt smile, just nods and hurries back indoors without waiting for them to drive off.
The journey back is in silence. The bag of meatballs sits in the boot. Emily swears she can feel its presence, somehow menacing and alive. Mark doesnt say a word, his grip on the steering wheel tight, gear changes sharper, gaze fixed ahead.
You can eat them, Emily says softly as they near their flat. I dont mind. I just wont.
Emily, Mark sighs, sounding exhausted, You realise Mum knows, dont you?
Knows what? Emily asks.
Everything. She saw you didnt eat, then you got ill, then we left right after. Shes no fool. I get itshes hurt.
And me? Emily snaps.
Mark doesnt reply.
Back home, Emily wanders into the kitchen, surveys the shining surfaces and neatly ordered jars, cutting boards she scrubs after every use. Here, everything feels clean. Here, hands get washed before cooking and after. Here, there are no meatballs shaped by fingers fresh out from beneath an armpit.
Mark brings the bag up from the car and puts it into the freezer.
You wont have any? he asks.
No, Emily says. I wont.
I will, Mark retorts. Theyre my mums meatballs. Always have been.
He disappears into the shower, leaving Emily alone in the kitchen. She turns on the tap, grabs the bar of soap, and scrubs her hands vigorously, right up to her elbows, like a surgeon about to operate. When shes done, she dries them on a clean towel and wondersdoes any of this really matter anymore? Can memories be washed away so easily?
She doesnt know.
But one thing she is sure of: shell never eat another one of Margarets meatballs. No pleading, no guilt, no she didnt mean any harm will change her mind.
Three days later, Mark fries four meatballs for supper, heaps mashed potatoes on his plate, slices up a pickled gherkin, and sits down to eat.
You having any? he asks, offering Emily a forkful.
No, she says. Thank you.
She steps away, settles into the armchair in the living room, turns up the TV to drown out the noise of Mark chewing.
Emily knows something has shifted in their marriage, something that may never quite mend. And all because of a hand. Any ordinary womans hand, scratching where it ached.
She closes her eyes and resolves not to think about it. If she can just not think, she can carry oneat only what she prepares herself, never again trusting anothers hands.
