My wife has a big family.

Not only are there a lot of them, they are physically big people -- driving big cars and eating big meals. And they are living the Southern Utah American dream of producing full football teams of children and making tacos out of Fritos.

Life in St. George, Utah, takes on a weird Americana feel; Norman Rockwell and Garrison Keillor mixed with the Republican Party platform and unwavering Christian faith.

On Saturdays, my father-in-law and brothers-in-law all follow the success and failure of Brigham Young University. On Sundays, they put on their short-sleeve white dress shirts, ill-fitting suits and dusty shoes and go to church to mumble through hymns and say, "Where's your mother?" when their children start to make noise.

My mother-in-law holds court with her daughters, strategically bragging about her weight loss and the various witty things she's said in the past week or so. The women of my wife's family sit in the kitchen (no, really, they are an activist feminist's nightmare), gossiping about other women with names like Jean and Norma, who are no doubt at the exact same moment in their kitchens and gossiping about them.

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The children run and scream and fall down and cry and tattle on each other and eat and eat and eat. They have to be told not to kick Uncle Chris in the shins. And I have a sneaking suspicion that their parents program them to say certain things:

"You need to get a haircut Uncle Chris." "When are you and Aunt Rachel gonna have kids?" "How come you don't come to church with us Uncle Chris?"

I am still coming to terms with having married into a massive Mormon family, and I still feel very much that I am an outsider.

My own family is neither large, nor particularly close. I have not seen any of my cousins in at least seven years.

I think a reason for that can be found in the fact that I am fourth-generation journalist. We're a generally sceptical bunch, and I think it's difficult for us to feel comfortable with people unless they have met most of the standards that we have for friendships. The idea of liking someone just because I'm related to them is a challenge for me.

So when my father-in-law's brother shakes my hand and tells me he's glad we could "come down" for a visit, I can't help but feel that he's going to try to deliver a pitch for mobile phone service or a used car.

Being thrown into Rachel's family was a bit like suddenly being appointed as a bank manager in Germany -- I neither speak German, nor know the first thing about finance. Yet here I am, the goofy guy in a massive family (and I mean massive -- if you know anyone from the state of Utah, I am probably related to them in some way).

I'm getting better at it. After three years of being part of this family I can now carry on a good 30-second conversation with a family member before I accidentally use profanity or bring everything to a grinding halt with an obscure reference:

ME: " He was Canadian, and refused to drink anything but Labatt's."
FAMILY: "What's Labatt's?"
ME: "Oh, it's a beer. Anyway, this guy was a huge Leafs fan --"
FAMILY: "What are Leafs? Is that another beer?"
ME: "No. The Toronto Maple Leafs. They're a professional hockey team."
FAMILY: "Ah, I don't watch a lot of hockey. You catch the BYU game last week?"

I'll admit that there are times when I feel my wife's family doesn't want me -- that I am too different. And there are times that I feel I don't want to be a part of Rachel's family.

I suppose that's what family is all about -- accepting one another all the time.

I don't have a platoon of children, I think BYU sucks, and I'm a member of the Sierra Club. But people still tell me they're glad to see me and offer me a plate of tacos made of Fritos. And I'm glad they do; my wife's family is a part of her, and she is a part of me, and -- slowly -- I'm becoming a part of the family.