Morning surprise from the mother-in-law

“Morning Surprise from the Mother-in-Law”

“Good morning, daughter-in-law!” my father-in-law, Javier López, said with a broad smile as he opened the door. Behind him, my mother-in-law, Carmen Gutiérrez, walked in, her expression as innocent as if she hadn’t done anything. She gave me a fleeting smile and a meaningful glance toward the kitchen, where she had apparently left her “surprise.” I, still unaware of what awaited me, nodded, but five minutes later I was close to screaming. This woman knows how to surprise, though not always in the way I’d like. And now I stand here, wondering whether to laugh or hold my head, because these surprises from Carmen have become a tradition.

My husband, Álvaro, and I have been living in the same house as my in-laws for six months now. When we got married, they insisted we move in with them—”family should be united,” they said. I agreed, even though I secretly dreamed of our own apartment. Javier is an affable man, easy to get along with: he’s always in the garage fixing something or watching football, never minding my business. But Carmen is a different story. She’s not mean, no, but she has a special talent for butting in where no one wants her and calling him “honey.” And her “surprises” always come with a catch.

That morning I got up early, as usual, to prepare breakfast. Álvaro had already left for work, and I planned to make an omelet, make some coffee, and start the day peacefully. But when I entered the kitchen, I froze. On the table was a huge, covered pot, with a note next to it: “Lucia, this is for your lunch, enjoy!” I lifted the lid and nearly fainted: it was fabada, not a normal one, but an experimental version—with tons of beans, a strange smell, and, apparently, half a kilo of paprika. I like fabada, but this one seemed like the result of mixing everything Carmen found in the pantry and adding spices of dubious origin.

I turned around and there she was, striding triumphantly into the kitchen. “What do you think, Lucía? Do you like my surprise?” she asked, as proudly as if it were a dish from a Michelin-starred restaurant. I forced a smile and murmured, “Thank you, Carmen, very… original.” And she continued, “I was up until the wee hours cooking so you wouldn’t go hungry. You’re always on a diet, but a man needs real food!” Real food? Álvaro loves my omelette and has never complained. But arguing with Carmen is like trying to reason with a bull in the act.

I tried to set limits, without success. “Carmen, thank you, but Álvaro and I usually eat lighter. No need to bother,” I said. She retorted, “Oh, Lucía, don’t thank me, it’s my duty! You’re young, you’ll learn how to run a household.” Will I learn? I’ve been cooking since I was fifteen, and my salads disappear at family gatherings faster than her “famous” croquettes! But Carmen seems to think that without her fabada, we’d starve to death.

This isn’t his first “surprise.” Last week, he brought three jars of pickled eggplant and put them in our fridge, displacing my yogurts. “Lucia, for the winter!” he announced. For the winter? We live in the same house, why do I need three jars? A month ago, he “helped” organize my closet and rearranged everything because “it’s more practical that way.” I spent two hours looking for my favorite sweater. Álvaro just laughs: “You’re not going to change my mother, just hang in there.” Hang in there? It’s easy for him; he’s at the office, while I deal with his antics.

The funny thing is that Carmen actually thinks she’s doing us a favor. She’s not one of those mothers-in-law who’s trying to make your life miserable—she’s convinced that her fabada (bean stew) will save us from hunger and that her advice will turn me into a “real housewife.” But I don’t want to be a housewife her way. I like cooking pasta, trying exotic spices, and not filling the fridge with giant pots. I want my kitchen to be mine, not an extension of Carmen’s culinary museum.

I tried to talk to Álvaro, but he, as always, opted for neutrality. “Lucia, Mom just wants to help. Have a little fabada, flatter her, and she’ll calm down,” he said. A little? I was drinking water all night because it was saltier than the sea! I proposed a deal: Carmen should ask before cooking. Álvaro promised to talk to her, but I doubt it will work. He’s already planning his next surprise: something about tuna empanadas. Mentally, I’m already preparing for another unexpected pot.

Sometimes I dream of an apartment where no one stirs my dishes or cooks without asking. But then I think: Carmen, with her oddities, isn’t bad. She just comes from another era, where the mother-in-law was the queen of the stove. Maybe I should relax and accept her surprises as part of family folklore. Although, as I stare at that pot, I think: if she calls my omelet “poor man’s food” again, I’ll start making sushi in front of her. Let’s see if she dares to add paprika.