Text: Solveig Hansen, 2022

While in observation mode, I find myself peeking into others’ shopping carts at the grocery store. Like that of the young woman intently studying her long shopping list. In my writer’s mind, I imagine she’s preparing to host dinner for her in-laws, armed with an exact list of ingredients for the three courses she plans to serve. Not exactly a genius in the kitchen, she’s bitten off way more than she can chew — but everything just has to be perfect. God, she tries so hard — mushrooms? canned OK? — and I feel so sorry for what I’m about to put her through.

Because without conflict, there’s no story.

She knows her wannabe-something brother-in-law will brag about the food at some classy restaurant he claims to frequent. Her mother-in-law will deliver a lecture on how she would prepare the same dishes. Of course, she never fries mushrooms, she sautés champignons. Fresh ones, mind you.

So what should our girl with the long list do?

Should we let her fail royally? Or let her think, Screw them, and drain her credit card ordering takeout from that same classy restaurant? The SoB brother-in-law won’t even notice, and the bitch-in-law will keep bragging about her own cooking skills and sautéed champignons. Will she — our protagonist, that is — confess her little scheme? Gloat silently? Or better yet: save it for later and throw it in their faces when she’s built up the nerve? Then laugh.

And where the hell is her husband??

Maybe we should just have her serve hot dogs. Or pizza.

I groan to myself and pick up a carton of milk.

“The cat sat on the mat” is not a story. “The cat sat on the dog’s mat” is a story.

― John le Carré

Image: Mohamed Hassan @ Pixabay.com