Funny stories about family

What A Strange Salad

, , , , , , , | Related | CREDIT: TESTREL1234 | November 3, 2020

My uncle is relatively nearsighted. Our two brothers both inherited my dad’s stocky build but my mom’s fair and easily sunburned complexion, while the older brother also inherited Dad’s thick crop of chest and back hair. My sister and my uncle are hanging out on the beach on a family vacation.

Uncle: “I can see your family out there in the water, but I can’t tell which one is which.”

Sister: “Oh, that’s easy.” *Points at youngest brother* “Tomato.” *Points at older brother* “Hairy tomato.” *Points at Dad* “Bear.”

And that is how new family nicknames are born.

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I’ll Take My Celery Salary Now, Please

, , , , , | Related | October 31, 2020

I’m eating celery when my dog sees that I’m eating something and comes up to me begging.

Me: “You don’t like celery.”

Dog continues begging.

Me: “No.”

Dog whines.

Me: “You don’t like celery.”

Dog continues whining and begging.

Me: “Fine.”

I give him a piece and he spits it out.

Me: “I told you.”

Dog sees me eating and starts begging.

Me: “It’s still celery.”

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Gonna Make “Uncle” Your First Word

, , , , | Related | October 30, 2020

I’m childhood friends with my neighbour’s kids. They have three boys and one girl. The youngest brother has just done something extremely stupid — covering himself in cushions and rolling down a hill — and is getting chewed out by their parents. The four of us are watching the carnage from afar.

Me: “Did your parents drop [Youngest Brother] on his head when he was a baby?”

Sister: “Of course not! How dare you insinuate that?! Our parents never dropped any of us on our heads!”

Me: “Uh, sorry.”

Brother #1: “It was our uncle that did the dropping.”

Me: “Really? He did that once?”

Brother #2: “More than once. Way more.”

I give him a disbelieving look.

Sister: “Yeah, admittedly, that’s true. He dropped all of us on our heads at least once.”

Now, the brothers might have been joking, but if their sister says so, then it’s true.

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Getting Heated Over The Chili

, , , | Related | October 29, 2020

Tomorrow is a coworker’s birthday.

Coworker: “Could make me some of the turkey chili like the kind you made for our 4th of July office party?”

I agree, and they remind me not to add carrots because they are allergic to it, and not to make it too spicy.

I make enough for two batches, which serves twelve each. One batch is for my coworker, and the other for my family. For the first batch, I try using the slow-cooker, but for the second I have to use the stove to make it quicker.

I walked out of the kitchen to let the first batch cook. I came back when it was about done to find my parents dipping their spoons into the chili: as in, they dunked their spoons into it, ate off said spoons, and used the same spoons to get another spoonful. Eww.

For the second batch, my mom asks:

Mom: “Are you going to put carrots into it?”

Me: “No. In fact, I told you twice, no carrots!”

She is chopping up vegetables while I go to the bathroom. I come out, I check the chili, she added the veggies… with carrots. They are cut so small, I couldn’t scoop them out.

Me: *Upset.* “Why did you add carrots?”

Mom: “Because the recipe called for carrots.”

I remind her that my coworker is allergic. I tell her twice in fact. She tilts her head one way a bit, half closing her eyes, straight-lined mouth, and a light shrug.

Mom: “I didn’t hear you say it.”

When she does that stance and says it like she said it, I know for a fact she heard me. She just brushes what I said right off, and there’s no way to argue with her without it turning into a yelling match. 

I have a little over two hours before work at this point, so I make a run to the store to get what I need to make two more batches. I cook it all on the stove, rather than the slow cooker.

I am making my third batch and my dad is now in the kitchen.

Dad: “I think maybe the chili is too bland. Maybe your coworker would like it to be a bit hotter?”

Me: “It’s hot enough, and I know how to make it.”

I walk off to get ready for work, and you can already see where this is going. My Dad adds some “Mexican Mystery Sauce” anyways. I come back to taste test it, and it’s disgusting! It’s far too sweet and does not blend well with what’s in there, and it’s so d*** hot, tears were coming down my face.

Dad: “What? It’s perfectly fine!”

Even though he can barely eat a spoonful. I dump it into a container and gave it to him.

Fourth Batch:

At this point in time, I have less than an hour to cook it. I cook everything into separate pots and try to mix it together. I forbid my parents from coming into the kitchen while I work.

Me: “Neither one of you is allowed anywhere near the kitchen until I am out the door.”

They are upset with ME over this! They just want to help, but I don’t trust either of them.

I manage to get it into a container, and out the door into my car. I came back in and rush to get ready, spraying down the inside of the pots and pans I used with soap.

Me: “Leave them so I can clean them when I get home.”

Mom: *Furious.* “No! You should clean up that mess before work!”

Me: “No. Because of you and dad, I don’t have time to do it.”

I came home from work to find that my dad cleaned the dishes, and mom tried to make me feel so guilty for that. I pointed out to her that between the two of them, they ruined three batches. My dad did apologize, but my mom was stuck on stubborn and refuses to admit that she was wrong.

Well, at least the fourth batch turned out alright. My coworker ate some there, and really liked it. In the end, it was worth the fuss to get a smile out of them.

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Mama’s Moldy Marmalade Makes Me Mad

, , , , | Related | October 29, 2020

This takes place quite a few years ago when my husband and I have been married for less than a year, and we’re visiting his parents for a weekend. His mother uses copious amounts of salt in her cooking and likes “old-fashioned” food — casseroles, dumplings, steamed puddings, and the like. I’ve always thought her food had a weird taste, and this particular weekend I find out why. We’re sitting at the table eating a full English breakfast.

Husband: “I’ve just used the last of the butter.”

Mother-In-Law: “There’s more in the fridge.”

Me: “I can get it.”

I’m nearest to the kitchen door.

Mother-In-Law: “Make sure you get the oldest one.”

Me: “Um… okay?”

I go to the fridge to find no less than five packs of butter. Three are in date but two are out of date, one by over two months. I bring the oldest of the in-date packs.

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, no, dear, that’s the wrong one.”

Me: “The others are out of date.”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, don’t take any notice of that.”

She takes the in-date butter back to the kitchen and brings back the old, expired, funky-tasting butter for our toast. I decide I don’t really need any more toast right now.

After the meal, I help to clear up. There is marmalade in a bowl on the table. My mother-in-law asks me to spoon the leftovers back into the jar — the jar which had a ring of green mould around the rim.

Me: “This is mouldy!”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, that’s fine. I scrape off any green bits when I serve it up.”

I pick up the frying pan with the oil from frying the eggs.

Mother-In-Law: “Just leave that on the stove; the lid’s in the cupboard.”

Me: *Pause* “Pardon?”

Mother-In-Law: “Pop the lid on; keep it fresh.”

It was then I discovered that the pan sits on the stove more or less permanently. The lid “keeps it fresh” and the oil is topped up whenever it gets low. It has never, to my knowledge, been washed… and we’ve now been married fifteen years.

My husband has since realised that his parents don’t have the healthiest outlook on food, but he won’t “rock the boat” and when we visit he will happily eat anything they serve. I have cereal for breakfast, and I’m sure my mother-in-law thinks I’m a fussy eater because I take a cautious bite of my food and leave anything that doesn’t taste quite right. I usually have a stash of cereal bars and chocolate in my overnight bag.

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