A Culinary Haven at Emily’s
When James and I stepped into Emily’s flat, the aroma that wrapped around me nearly made me forget why we’d even come. The air smelled of freshly roasted meat, warm pastries, and spices that seemed to dance around us. I paused in the doorway, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply—it was the scent of comfort, celebration, and something downright magical. When I finally looked at the table, I was speechless. The dishes laid out could’ve belonged in a museum of culinary art. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to admire them or grab a plate straight away.
Emily, an old friend of mine, had always been skilled in the kitchen, but this time, she’d outdone herself. James and I were there for dinner—she’d invited us “just because,” with no special occasion, just to chat and spend the evening together. I’d expected something simple: a salad, maybe some roast chicken, tea with biscuits. But what I saw was a proper gastronomic spectacle. The table groaned under the weight of it all: a golden-crusted pork loin with herbs, roast potatoes sprinkled with rosemary, vegetables arranged like a still-life painting, and a pie with a buttery crust that smelled of apples and cinnamon. And the sauces—three different ones, in dainty little bowls, each a masterpiece in its own right.
“Emily, are you opening a restaurant or something?” I blurted out, unable to tear my eyes away. She just laughed and waved me off. “Oh, Charlotte, I just fancied treating you. Sit down, let’s dig in!” James, my husband, who’s usually a man of few words, was already reaching for his fork, but I nudged him. “Wait, I need a picture first—this deserves to be on Instagram!” Emily rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased. That’s just like her—cooking with heart, then acting like it’s nothing.
We settled at the table, and the feast began. The meat melted in my mouth, with just a hint of garlic and something else I couldn’t even place. “Emily, what’s your secret?” I asked, and she grinned. “A pinch of love!” I laughed, but part of me believed it. How else could even a simple tomato and cucumber salad taste like a work of art? James, who usually eats in silence, suddenly said, “Emily, if you cook like this every day, I’m moving in.” We all burst out laughing, though I noticed him eyeing the dishes for seconds.
As we ate, Emily shared how she’d prepared each dish. Turns out, she’d spent the whole day in the kitchen, and some recipes were hand-me-downs from her grandmother. “This pie,” she said, “was Gran’s signature for every holiday. I just added a bit more vanilla and cinnamon.” Listening to her, I wondered how she had the patience. I can barely last an hour in the kitchen myself. My signature dish is cheesy pasta, and that’s only if the cheese is pre-grated. But this—every flavour harmonised, all made with such care it made me want to hug her.
The most astonishing thing, though, was the atmosphere Emily had created. It wasn’t just the food; her whole home seemed to hum with warmth. A little vase of flowers sat on the table, candles flickered in the soft glow, and a jazz tune played quietly in the background. It struck me how long it had been since I’d felt so at ease. Even James, who usually buries himself in his phone after dinner, was grinning and telling stories from his younger days. Emily had turned an ordinary evening into something special.
Somewhere between a second slice of pie and a cup of herbal tea, I asked, “Emily, how do you manage it all? Work, home, and yet you still throw dinners like this!” She thought for a moment and said, “You know, Charlotte, cooking’s like meditation for me. I put on music, chop vegetables, knead dough—and all my worries fade. And when I see you enjoying it, I know it’s worth it.” I looked at her and wished I had even a drop of her talent and patience. Maybe then I’d bake pies instead of ordering pizza for every occasion.
As we got ready to leave, Emily pressed a container of leftover pie and meat into our hands. “Take it,” she insisted. “For later!” I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Charlotte, don’t argue—I made it for you.” Stepping outside, it hit me that the evening hadn’t just been about the food. It was about friendship, warmth, and the joy of sharing. Emily had reminded me how important it is to slow down, gather together, and savour the moment.
Now I’m thinking I ought to invite Emily over in return. Though panic’s already setting in—what on earth will I serve? My cheesy pasta won’t hold a candle to her cooking. Maybe I’ll order takeaway and pretend I tried? Only joking. I’ll ask her for a couple of recipes and give it a proper go. And if it’s rubbish, I’ll just say, “Emily, you’re the queen of the kitchen, and I’m still learning.” And I know she’ll laugh and say the company’s what matters. That’s just her way.
