Cohabiting with my mother-in-law had been difficult from the beginning. Our cultural differences had always been a source of conflict, but I never imagined it would get to the point where she threw out everything I had for cooking.
I cook because it’s a lively depiction of my South Asian background, and it means more to me than simply food; it’s a link to my identity, family, and roots. But the day I saw my cupboard empty, my mother-in-law’s contempt for my culture and the cuisine I adore became brutally apparent.
Moving in with my mother-in-law was never going to be simple. Our home’s dynamics changed drastically, but I had hoped for some form of understanding and respect. My spouse is stuck in the midst of this cultural conflict, despite having a palette that has accepted the variety of flavors that I make. His attempts at mediation have been admirable, but you can see the tension destroying the peace we had.
I had heard my mother-in-law’s derogatory remarks before. She had always spoken her opinions, calling out the spicy smells that permeated our house or the fact that I ate with my hands as if they were something to be embarrassed of. It felt pointless for my husband to try to teach her about the diversity and beauty of other cultures and to stand up for me.
My tolerance was becoming thin from putting up with her continual criticism and disrespect for my background, but I’d opted to say nothing and blamed her actions on the strain of the quarantine.
My breaking point was the morning I saw the pantry was empty. It was upsetting to realize that she had decided to discard not just the food but also a portion of my identity. Her explanation—that it was done in accordance with her son’s dietary requirements—was a flagrant disdain for my culture, myself, and even her son’s decisions.
She made it obvious that she thought my ethnic background was inferior and should be eliminated in favor of what she called “normal American food,” treating my American citizenship as if it were a badge of honor.
Restocking my supplies was a task that added to my irritation. Grocery shopping was already a difficult process because of the quarantine, and shortages made locating some components for my recipes almost impossible. It was the last insult to injury, coming home empty-handed to answer her bold questions about dinner arrangements.
Something changed in me at that same instant, feeling denigrated and mistreated in my own house. I understood that keeping quiet and trying to diffuse the situation had just made her disrespectful behavior more brazen. It was obvious that confronting the issue head-on or asking my spouse to step in once more would not work. She was directly challenging my identity and my position in this family with her acts, and I could not allow it to go unanswered.
A cool determination descended upon me as I stood there, confronting her insolent question about supper. I was aware that answering now would just encourage others to disregard my origins and emotions. But I was no longer going to follow her guidelines. I wasn’t going to try to make do with the little ingredients I had or try to justify her behaviors, which were painful and wrong, one more time.
No, my strategy was different.
With a specific goal in mind, I directed all of my annoyance and willpower into developing an excellent cooking plan. The huge social event that my mother-in-law’s approaching party was meant to be was the ideal setting for my scheme. She expected a meal of traditional American fare to please her guests, viewing this celebration as a demonstration of her elegance and taste. Nevertheless, I perceived a chance to delicately present the very core of my background that she had so strongly disapproved of.
Taking over the kitchen to make the party’s food, I made the decision to add a dash of Indian flavor to every “American” dish. There were hints of cumin and coriander in the potato salad, cardamom in the apple pie, and garam masala in the burgers. There was a subtle shift that created a gastronomic bridge between our worlds, intriguing but not overwhelming.
The attendees were mixing and taking in the atmosphere as the celebration got into full flow. They were all surprised and delighted by the unexpected flavors as they started to eat. They came up to my mother-in-law one by one, raving about the creative and delectable take on classic recipes. Every praise was evidence of the global language of delicious cuisine, which cuts over cultural divides and biases.
My mother-in-law was taken aback by the outpouring of compliments and regarded the dish critically, seeking an explanation for her dislike of Indian food. But what she saw in front of her, a room full of people who were actually enjoying the cuisine, made her viewpoint shift. The understanding that her prejudices were unjustified overwhelmed her first impulse to reject the strange flavors. The cuisine was embraced rather than merely accepted.
This epiphany proved to be crucial for my mother-in-law. She realized the pointlessness of her opposition when she saw her friends’ happiness and contentment stemming from the same food she had mocked.
She realized that her dislike of Indian food was just a surface-level symptom of her underlying prejudices toward my ethnic heritage. She was ultimately overcome by the realization that her son’s happiness depended heavily on his accepting his wife’s ancestry.
Our home dynamics underwent a dramatic change following the celebration. The admission of my mother-in-law’s unwarranted hostility cleared the path for a more peaceful cohabitation. The hostility that had formerly characterized our interactions started to fade and was replaced with a cautious regard for one another. Even while this comprehension did not make all of our problems go away, it was an important first step in the healing process.
Even as our love developed, living together remained out of the question for everyone. My mother-in-law made the decision to relocate to her daughter’s home, maybe seeing the need for distance to enable our relationship to keep repairing. Everyone exhaled in unison at this decision, which was welcomed as a necessary adjustment that offered everyone a new beginning.
Ultimately, the event imparted to us all priceless knowledge about tolerance, decency, and the ability of food to bring people together. Even though there was still a long way to go before we could completely bridge our cultural gap, the celebration was a moving reminder that change is possible. It emphasized how crucial it is to set aside our preconceptions and embrace the variety that makes life more meaningful.
In such a situation, how would you have handled your mother-in-law? Tell us on Facebook!