My MIL and Her Family Sabotaged Every Meal I Made – Until I Secretly Served Her Own Dish #2

I’m an American woman, married to an Indian-American man named Raj. From the moment I met his family, especially his mother, Priya, I could feel the wall. Little did I know that I’d be forced to bring that wall down.

Raj’s family didn’t reject me because of our cultural differences, but for something colder and harder.

Priya saw me as a passing phase, someone who didn’t belong, despite Raj and me being together for three years, married for one.

No matter how kind I was or how hard I tried, she’d flash that tight-lipped smile and keep me at bay, never really accepting me.

I loved my husband, and he adored his family, so I continued trying, maybe too hard, in spite of the rejection. I desperately wanted my mother-in-law’s (MIL) approval, not just for myself, but for Raj.

What you need to understand about my husband is that he was, and still is, the golden child in the family, and the idea that I might be a wedge between him and his people killed me.

So, I turned my efforts up a notch and leaned into their culture to show how much I cared about their heritage.

People, listen to me clearly, I went deep.

I studied Hindi phrases, learned Bollywood dance routines with my friends for fun, and most importantly, I cooked. But not just any cooking; no, that wouldn’t be enough for Priya and her family.

For months, I dove knee-deep into traditional North Indian cuisine. I pored over cookbooks, watched YouTube channels like Hebbars Kitchen on repeat, and set off every smoke alarm in our apartment experimenting with dishes.

I explored dishes like palak paneer, rajma masala, and my difficult MIL’s supposed signature and favorite dish: chole bhature, a popular North Indian chickpea curry with fried bread.

Our kitchen was a disaster zone of turmeric stains and splattered tomato gravy. I must have made chole bhature 20 times! Raj, bless him, never complained and served as my guinea pig, sampling everything I made.

One night, after I scorched yet another batch, I slumped to the floor beside the stove, defeated.

Raj knelt beside me, laughing. “You’re doing great, babe. Really.”

“No, I’m not,” I said, wiping my forehead. “Your mom would probably call the fire department if she saw this.”

He pulled me up and into a hug. “You know what she does? She throws in extra chili and then brags about how no one in America can handle real food. You’re being thoughtful. That’s what matters.”

My husband’s words of encouragement gave me just enough motivation to try again. And finally, one day, it came out right! The chickpeas were tender, the spices hit the perfect tang, and the bhature puffed like clouds!

For the next family dinner, I brought my homemade chole bhature, heart pounding like I was walking into an exam I hadn’t studied for. I placed the dish on the table with a little smile, but inside my mind, I was picking it right back up and running far away with it!

As everyone gathered around the table, Priya pulled off the foil of a bowl and said, “I brought my special! My chole bhature!”

Everyone cheered and clapped as my dish, sitting right there, remained invisible.

Raj gave me a side glance. “You know,” he whispered, “she only makes that when she’s feeling competitive.”

The meal began. His uncle, Arvind, sat at the head of the table.

My dish was moved to sit closest to him, followed by my MIL’s. For some reason, they ate meals starting from the one closest to the person sitting at the head of the table. Everyone then started scooping from my dish first.

I watched it unfold silently, noting each reaction, my MIL leading the pack.

Priya raised her eyebrows, looking displeased. “Oh no, did you really think that much chili was a good idea? My stomach’s already burning. It’s too spicy!”

My heart sank as the negative comments continued.

Raj’s cousin Meena wrinkled her nose. “Did someone skip the salt?”

Another cousin, Dev, laughed. “Hmm. It’s not bad, just… amateurish. But that’s expected since you didn’t grow up with real Indian cooking, right?”

Someone else even added, “Honestly, just order takeout next time.”

My poor Raj, gotta love him, he tried speaking up for me. “All your taste buds are shot, her dish is delicious!”

When they’d finished obliterating my dish, Priya “rescued” the meal by presenting her own dish.

Of course, everyone praised it like it came from the heavens! I felt invisible.

Raj still had my back, saying, “Honestly, I love your cooking. I don’t get what they’re talking about.”

When we left a bit early, it was because I felt defeated and drained, but my husband still encouraged me to keep trying.

So, for the next dinner outings, I kept bringing different Indian dishes I’d practiced, but the reception was always the same. My dish would receive the first tasting before being judged harshly.

Someone snarked about my dal being “too Western” or how my samosas “tasted like Whole Foods.”

Raj held my hand tighter under the table. Once, when Meena rolled her eyes and asked if I even knew what asafoetida was, he flat-out said, “Yeah, she does. Maybe don’t act like you invented Indian food.”

And then Priya would give her offering, and the raves were almost nauseating.

But Raj always said something nice about my dishes out loud.

However, after the fifth or sixth round of public shaming, I got fed up and finally snapped.

Instead of throwing in the towel, I came up with a plan.

I knew that Priya was due to make her chole bhature again, because she pretty much worked on a rotation schedule.

Since Raj had bought the serving bowl his mom used for that particular dish a year ago for her birthday, I told him I liked it and asked where he’d gotten it. I went and bought it, and for that next dinner, I made chole bhature again.

I made my best attempt at making it look exactly like Priya’s, having memorized hers when she made it the last time. I even mimicked her presentation exactly, right down to the same serving bowl and garnish.

That night, my MIL brought the same dish as expected, looking pretty much like the one I’d made, same serving bowl and all.

When dinner began, people ate the first dish, usually my “failed attempts,” and as expected, after a few bites, they started their usual routine:

“Oh god, it’s dry again,” Priya was the first to comment, as usual.

“Why does it taste so flat?” added someone else.

“I don’t want to be rude, but you should stop trying,” remarked another cousin.

I smiled sweetly, facing them proudly for the first time. “Wow… I didn’t think you’d speak that way about your own mother’s cooking?”

Forks paused in midair. Meena blinked. Arvind tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“That dish,” I said, pointing at the partially-eaten bowl in front of Arvind, “is Priya’s. Mine’s the one no one has touched yet. Right behind that one.”

Dead silence.

Dev looked from one bowl to the other, his expression slowly sinking from smug to stunned.

Priya’s mouth opened slightly. “What… what game is this?”

“No game,” I said. “I just wanted to see if the food was really the problem. Or if it was the person making it.”

You must be as confused as Raj’s family at this point, dear reader. Let me explain.

Earlier that evening, while everyone was in the other room setting up the karaoke machine, I’d quietly switched the placement of the bowls. Mine had gone where hers would be, and vice versa. No one suspected a thing.

Raj chuckled, having finally figured out why I wanted the same dish as his mother’s. “You’re brilliant, babe!”

Arvind’s wife, Aunt Neela, leaned forward, her bangles clinking. “So… wait. We all thought we were eating your food… and we criticized it…”

Arvind turned red. “We were set up!”

“No,” said Dev with a grunt. “We were exposed.”

Neela looked at Priya, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been turning us against her this whole time?!”

Suddenly, everyone was turning against her, chastising her, and basically making her feel bad!

Priya just kept brushing them off, telling them to, “Just shut your mouths, you don’t know anything!”

No one touched her dish after that!

Arvind was the first to dish up my actual dish, and the praise was the validation I’d wanted ever since I started dating Raj!

Even the children noticed that there was nothing wrong with my dish.

Well, some actually favored mine over my MIL’s. The youngest cousin, little Rani, chimed in, “But I like this one better. Can I have more?”

Raj passed her a piece of bhature from my bowl.

Priya stared at her hands, then slowly lifted her fork and took another bite from her own dish, the one she hadn’t realized was hers.

Everyone watched as she chewed. Then swallowed. She didn’t say a word. But she reached over and scooped seconds from my bowl!

Raj grinned at me across the table. “Told you they’d love it!”

His mother hated that.

But I never imagined the day would come when she would say nothing instead of something awful. That was more powerful than a thousand compliments!

We stayed late that evening. It was the first time I truly enjoyed being with the family. We sang some very spirited karaoke, some members laughing at my bad pronunciation of the lyrics.

But most of all, that was the last time Priya mocked my food.

If you enjoyed this story, then here’s another one about a woman whose MIL mistreated her daughter from her first relationship. When the MIL went too far with her ill-treatment, her daughter-in-law made her regret everything wrong she ever did.