I bolt upright in bed, one thought in my head: “the in-laws are coming.”

Am I feverish? I’ve had ten days of bowel ravaging flu (a parting souvenir from my soggy camping trip). I look over in the mirror: eyes resemble escargots, lips a nice shade of Khaki. “Yeah, good to go!”

I have no time to elegantly return from convalescence, gliding around my house in a satin robe, re-hydrating with a twist of lemon. My in-laws are flying in and I have exactly four hours to get ready.

I walk shakily over to my bedroom door, take a deep breath and open it.

“Dear God in heaven.”

Imagine if you will, my house without its keeper, left to be plundered for ten days by a toddler, a renovating husband who does not know the meaning of “put it back where you found it,” and two dogs: Hairy and Stinky.

Now imagine my mother-in-law. She wears a lot of white. She cleans her floors on hands and knees every single day, the kitchen tiles after every meal. She tugs all those little tassels on the throw rugs back into line one by one, like naughty school boys, until they are in perfect unison. You could perform open heart surgery under her sofa, storing the surgical tools in her heat vent. You could lick the underside of her stove and not taste a damn thing. She is a cleaning goddess. It’s not so much that I want to “match” her or seek her approval. She’s a tenderhearted woman with a keen distaste for entropy. I simply don’t want her to be in too much pain.

I grab my rubber gloves, blast opera, and forge into the fray.

Two hours later, my abode gleams with innocence on the outside, masking the dirty chaos lurking on the inside. “Let’s just hope they don’t open the cupboards.”

I shake off my sweat like a dog and leap into the car to make a mad grocery run. “Now, what in the world am I going to do for dinner? They’ll be too tired to go out. It can’t be too rich, it must be lean, it has to be fast and it should be extra special to mark the occasion.”

Finally, I arrive at Granville Market…

Inside there’s a lovely shop called Edible BC where I pluck from the shelf…white truffle olive oil. I’ve never tried it; I’ve only heard epicurean folklore. The saleswoman swoons, already in a fever of love. “It’s worth every penny.” I examine the price and gasp.

I wander around Granville Island Market in a sensual spiritual haze, gathering by instinct, rather than recipe, everything exquisite.

Later that night, my guests arrive. My father-in-law, in fine form, pours the red wine. My mother-in-law, in white, drinks white. They are in a state of exhilaration, so excited to be here, the Mecca they feared they’d never see. I lay all my ingredients in front of me and begin to put them together: bruschetta made with fresh figs, asiago and pine nuts. I assemble bocconcini with rosso bruno tomatoes and fresh basil. I wrap prosciutto around Qualicum scallops and poach them in wine and serve over arugula. Then I grill fresh wild Arctic char with chanterelle mushrooms and drizzle with white truffle oil.

We feast.

. . . . . . .
Photo by Craig Hatfield.