Martha’s holiday invasions had become the stuff of family legend. Every summer, she’d descend upon our home with her grown children and their messy kids in tow, leaving me exhausted and resentful. Last Fourth of July, I spent $800 feeding them all, only to find my good silverware in the trash and red wine on my white couch.
This year, I fought back with the most British of weapons. When Martha’s minivans rolled in, they were greeted not with smoked brisket, but with a dainty tray of crustless cucumber sandwiches and warm lemonade. “Where’s the real food?” my brother-in-law demanded. “Where’s the real help?” I countered.
The mutiny was glorious. Martha spluttered about “hospitality” while her grandkids turned up their noses at my deliberately bland spread. They lasted exactly 47 minutes before retreating to a chain steakhouse. The best part? When Martha tried complaining on Facebook, our mutual friends all chimed in with memories of her legendary rudeness. Some rebellions don’t require cannons – just perfectly passive-aggressive tea sandwiches.
