Free Recipes for a Perfect Marriage by Kate Kerrigan

that I knew that Dan knew that I didn’t like his family, even though I had never said anything to suggest it. And now they knew that I didn’t like them because it had taken us so long to respond to this ongoing Sunday lunch summons.
    Basically—it was one of those buttock-clenching, awkward moments.
    When we entered, Eileen grunted at me briefly, but that meant nothing. She was from the generation before hugging was invented. Stern matriarchs who provide shelter and food, but don’t offer affection after your fifth birthday. No wonder her kids were all grinning at me like frightened rabbits.
    I asked, “Can I help, Eileen?”
    A sister-in-law, Shirley, caught my eye, and raised her brow a degree, although I knew that she didn’t mean her fellowship to comfort me. Shirley was a cheap, competitive cow. She’d worn a white gauzy dress to our wedding—and no underwear. Nipples in the chapel. Classy.
    The twins leaped up to help their mother. Kay and Connie are identical, right down to their square, straight teeth and their bubbly personalities. They were mercilessly upbeat and friendly. You had to like them, although their appearance was unsettling. Kay wore her bangs side parted and tucked behind her ears, Connie had a back-combed fan. It’s sad to think that their senses of individuality were so crucially contained in a hair-spray can. The twins both seemed much younger than their thirty years and still lived at home.
    There was no order to the meal. Cutlery was thrown onto the center of the table along with an open packet of napkins. Kay handed out (un-warmed) plates, which were supplemented by disposable party ones; men wandered to get beer from the fridge and women took the opportunity to call to them for a Sprite. Connie and Eileen started to carry out platters of food, and guests haphazardly cleared away newspapers, bills, kiddie cups, Walkmans— the miscellaneous stuff that gathers in a kitchen—to make room on every crammed surface. The food was mostly fried meat— drumsticks, steakhouse burgers—accompanied by man-made variations of the potato—fries, waffles, wedges. Everyone grabbed at it hungrily and started dipping into bowls full of various store-bought condiments.
    Shirley was picking at a bread roll with her curved fuchsia nails and poking shreds of dough into the corner of her mouth with the reluctance of the vocational slimmer.
    “Bet this is different to what you’re used to, Tressa.”
    I knew the comment was designed to make trouble and there was no “right” response but everyone looked at me, waiting for the new family recruit to make her reply. I smiled as brightly as I could and said, “It all looks delicious.”
    With that, Eileen picked up a plate of ribs and stuck it under my nose. I took one and she nodded toward a bowl of sauce. She was going to police my eating, check the fancy food writer’s response to her cooking. I was not, despite being a food snob, a fussy eater. But this pressure was making me feel physically sick and the vinegary smell from the dripping meat did not help. Dear God, I was going to hurl. I could feel the shocked faces follow me onto the patio.
    Dan came straight out after me and when he laid his hand on my shoulder, it released a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. For no specific reason I could determine, I started to cry. He led me to a corner of the patio where nobody could see us and wrapped himself around my head and shoulders. He didn’t care that I was sobbing in the middle of what was supposed to be a happy family gathering, and he didn’t ask what was the matter with me. This was just as well because I didn’t have the first clue myself. It was a relief, briefly, not to think about it and just let myself go.
    Dan held onto me until I managed to gather myself back together, then he took my chin in his hand and wiped my wet cheek with his palm. I felt about ten years old.
    “I guess Mom’s ribs are pretty bad, huh?”
    I managed a smile