…and revealed a perfectly arranged spread that made the entire patio go quiet.
Homemade roasted red pepper hummus swirled with olive oil and fresh herbs. A creamy caramelized onion dip topped with crispy shallots. Fresh pico de gallo bursting with color. A whipped feta and honey spread with crushed pistachios. And in the center — still warm — a cast-iron skillet of bubbling spinach and artichoke dip with a golden, broiled top.
Everything made from scratch.
MIL blinked. “Oh.”
I handed her the bag of plain kettle chips. “Figured we’d need something sturdy.”
Guests began circling the table.
“Who made this?” Uncle Ray asked, already scooping a chip into the hummus.
“I did,” I said lightly.
Greg took one bite of the whipped feta and froze. “Okay… wait. This is incredible.”
Someone else chimed in, “Is that homemade?”
I nodded.
Within minutes, the “special tray” was the center of the party. People hovered around it, double-dipping into compliments instead of just the bowls.
MIL stood stiffly beside me. “Well,” she said tightly, “I didn’t realize you cooked like this.”
I smiled. “You never asked.”
Later, as the sun started to set and fireworks popped faintly in the distance, Greg found me by the drink table.
“Why don’t you ever make things like this for holidays?” he asked.
I held his gaze. “Because every time I try, your mom makes sure I regret it.”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
When we left, three different relatives asked me for recipes. One even joked, “You’re in charge of dips from now on!”
As we got into the car, MIL hugged her arms tightly and said, “Well… thank you for bringing the chips.”
I smiled sweetly. “Anytime.”
And that was the last time she ever told me to “just bring chips.”
