The ma-in-law, daughter-in-law relationship hasn’t happen yet and I’ve a mind to believe it never will. If she would direct her insults at herself or at least someone more deserving, we might have a chance at building a friendship.

My husband, Kale, keeps saying, “In time my ma will accept you.”

It’s been nearly thirty-three years. How much time is this going to take? Besides, I don’t know how close I want to get to a woman who named her oldest son; Kale, the twins, Spud and Tater, and her daughters, Cherry, Nectarine, and Current.

Every time we come to visit she puts us right to work. Today, I wore my Sunday dress, figuring it would relieve me of any messy chores.

My ma-in-law awarded me with a sideways glance. “Who are you trying to impress in that rakish, louche get-up? You missed your mark if you were aiming to imitate some fancy movie star.” With a wave of her hand she sent me out to the muddy chicken coop to shovel the hard crust from the dirt floor and gather the eggs.

An hour later my tears wet my feet. I’d be scrubbing my dress shoes for a month, hoping some of the luster might return. My only thanks came in the form of a scolding through my ma-in-law’s pursed lips. “You shouldn’t have to be told to wear more sensible clothes. And white patent leather shoes had no sense being invented or worn.”

For my next chore, I found myself at my ma-in-law’s side hand scooping sauerkraut from her big crock at the back door into jars waiting to be canned. The whole house smelled like soured socks. I had to fight to keep from retching.

Soon the table and every inch of free counter space housed rows of jars going in or coming out of the hissing canner. Pops, pings, and tings sounded all round the kitchen. Each important musical notes proclaiming another jar had sealed.

With a proud smile, my ma-in-law offered bowls of kraut and soda crackers for a stand-up dinner. Kale ate a bowlful to be polite. I couldn’t draw the spoon to my mouth without swallowing the urge to vomit. Instead, I nibbled on the stale soda crackers.

By nightfall we readied ourselves to go over allegations that we hadn’t sat down and had a good talk. Off came our coats. Out came my ma-in-law’s latest gossip and complaints about the neighbors and, well, generally, everyone in the town.

The one sided conversation kept my ma-in-law’s jaw flapping and Kale’s mouth clamped shut tight. Even though I hate this part of the visit, I gather up some hidden courage, grit my teeth, and force a smile made of wet plaster.

Halfway through the visit my ma-in-law thumped a plate of raisin cookies onto a sealed jar of sauerkraut hugging one edge of the table. I don’t hold an appetite for my ma-in-law’s cookies ever since I saw her empty the ancient crumbs from her cookie jar into fresh cookie batter.

Kale bit into a cookie. He chewed so long, you’d have thought he’d stuffed his mouth with jerky. The raisins must have fossilized. I held back a shudder and hoped a trip to the dentist wouldn’t be necessary.

My ma-in-law jumped up a few minutes later and ran a thin hand through her short, thick hair. Our signal the sit down visit had ended.

We applied the token hugs and kisses and made our way through the door. At our car my ma-in-law hailed me back and slapped a sack in my hand. “Here’s a pair of my sensible shoes and a cookies for the trip home.” She tossed me a smile like it cost her more than the gifts.

I gulped back my anger and took her thin body in my arms. I don’t know why, but this time I enveloped her with a tenderness I’d never offered before. Suddenly, all my bitterness drained.

For the first time in all these years she hugged me back.

My hand gripped the sack with a new found appreciation. The old shoes and ancient cookies transformed into wanted treasures, and the same went for my ma-in-law.