Mother-In-Law Diplomacy

There are five foods I do not eat:  tomatoes, olives, mustard, bacon, and hard-boiled eggs.

This story is about my mother-in-law who lives in rural Oregon.  Most people have issues with their in-laws; however, I really like my mother-in-law.  She is a tough and righteous woman who has endured many hard knocks in her life.  She raised five sons practically on her own, having been widowed at too young an age.  As a result, she has great empathy for the downtrodden and disenfranchised.  It is not unusual to see her adopt sick or elderly people in her community, becoming their primary caretaker.  She rarely asks for anything for herself.   For these reasons, she commands my respect.

I imagine that my mother-in-law probably has not forgiven me for capturing her oldest son.  People in Oregon believe that no one would leave that state voluntarily.  A few of her friends have made revealing comments to me over the years, indicating their commonly held belief that our New England life must be the result of unfair demands that I have placed on my husband.  Never mind the fact that I met him in Boston, or that he is a Harvard professor!  It is a challenge, however, being the only family members not living in Pacific Standard Time.   We are lucky if we are able to see everyone once a year.

Tomatoes, olives, mustard, bacon, and hard-boiled eggs.

Visiting Oregon is problematic from the East Coast.  At various times of year, airlines will run non-stops between major Eastern cities and Portland.  At other times, getting there requires a change of planes—depending upon the airline—in Minneapolis, Denver, or Salt Lake City. Unfortunately, getting to Portland is only half the battle; my husband’s home town is a tough three-hour drive from Portland on the Oregon Coast—midway between California and Washington.   It is not unusual that a visit “home” to Oregon could involve twelve to fifteen hours of traveling under the best of circumstances, substantially longer should weather or air-traffic delays occur.

On one such visit, we were victims of summer storms traveling cross country.  We arrived in Portland hours late and called my mother-in-law to offer a status report.  She was excited to see us, suggesting that we not stop to eat as she had prepared lunch for us and was holding it for our arrival.  We managed the punishing rental-car maze at PDX, then hit the road.  About twenty miles outside of Portland the suburbs ebb, giving way to miles of flat, rural lands bifurcated by a paved freeway.  Eventually the path heads west on simpler roads; we followed the setting sun, stopping just short of the Pacific Ocean.  This is where my husband’s home town lies, demarcated by sand dunes to the south and Sea Lion Caves to the north.

Tomatoes, olives, mustard, bacon, hard-boiled eggs.

For me, this town sixty miles from the nearest city is familiar yet still somewhat foreign after thirty years.  But something happens to my husband as we near the home of his youth.  Starting with the hard left turn at Mapleton, still miles outside of town, he relaxes the clench of his jaw, unfurls his brow, and starts taking the turns in the road blindly yet with practiced accuracy.  He glances to the left to make note of the waterline on the river and the conditions at the lumber mill—a certain bellwether of the local economy.  To the right, he remembers the home they once had up the North Fork of the river, a dream his father did not live to realize.  At the main intersection, he makes a quick detour left to follow the road under the bridge and into Old Town, processing mixed feelings about the burgeoning commerce that both feeds and awakens this sleepy town.

Once sated, he takes the interior road through town, passing the newspaper building, the school, and the baseball field that bears his father’s name.  We find the road that leads to his mother’s house, pulling in at last from the endless journey.  The kids are exhausted and starving.   My mother-in-law emerges from her house, happy that we have arrived safely and anxious to embrace her first born son and his family.  Graciously she welcomes us, pointing out that the table is already set and that our lunch is waiting.  “Good,” I moan, “the plane had no food and we are starving.”  We take our places at the table as she brings out heaping bowls of tomato soup garnished with chopped black olives, a large green salad tossed with bacon, tomatoes, olives and chopped egg, and a bowl of potato salad prepared with hard-boiled egg and mustard.

There are five foods I do not eat:  tomatoes, olives, mustard, bacon and hard-boiled eggs.

I looked pitifully at my husband.  He returned a glare that threatened, “Don’t you dare!”   I pictured her preparing for our visit, fussing over the table setting, chopping the vegetables.   I imagined her lugging grocery bags to her car, carrying the bundles into the house, neatly arranging the ingredients.  I thought of her folding laundry, making the beds in the guest room, setting out clean towels.  As hungry as I was, I concocted a story of a sudden stomach ache, trying to quell the rumbling within until I could make a hasty retreat down the road to the local A&W, or Safeway, or Dairy Queen.  I really love my mother-in-law; she has earned my respect.   But there is no way I could ever choke down a meal of tomatoes, olives, mustard, bacon and hard-boiled eggs.

Tomorrow's blog:  Daft Pick