And did you chop this salad yourself, or is it yet another one of those plastic-tub monstrosities you poison my son with? Margaret Holmes pressed her lips together while prodding at the salmon and cream cheese tartlet with undisguised distaste.
I took a deep breath, fiddling with the hem of my party dress. Thirty-five. My birthday. Id quite like to feel like a queen today, to soak up good wishes and simply enjoy life. Instead, I felt like a schoolgirl caught red-handed not doing her homeworkme, standing in the middle of my living room, arranging the buffet.
Margaret, its from a really good restaurant; the chefs Italian you know, proper fresh ingredients, I replied, keeping the smile in place. I do work until eight most evenings. I simply dont have time to cook for fifteen guests from scratch.
Oh of course, work, my mother-in-law rolled her eyes, glancing up at the photograph of her son on the wall as if seeking silent support. We worked too, in our day. Factory, field, children but feeding your husband ready-made supermarket rubbish on a special day? Honestly, Amelia, its unheard of. Poor Nick, he looks dreadful and those bags under his eyes!
At that very moment, Nick my poor boy, all thirty-eight years and nearly fifteen stone of him, cheeks a healthy pink strolled in rubbing his hands.
Mum, Amy! Gosh, look at this spread! And that smell Are these the aubergine rolls? Amy, you know I love those!
Margaret shot him a long-suffering, motherly glance but said nothing. The guests would arrive any minute. I retreated to the kitchen for the hot food, feeling a coil of irritation wind tighter. This had been going on for years. During the five years Nick and I had been married, my mother-in-law waged a silent campaign over my inadequate cooking. Every weekend she delivered Tupperware stacked with fish pies, chicken casseroles, and fruit cakes, always with: Have some proper food, or I know Amys far too busy, shes such a career woman! I let it slide. I really did work hard I headed the logistics department at a major firm, actually earned more than Nick, and felt paying for a cleaning service and decent food delivery was perfectly reasonable. It freed up precious time for each other, for books, for the gym.
But Margaret saw it differently. To her, a woman who didnt want to make steak and kidney pies from scratch was fundamentally flawed.
The doorbell rang; the party began in earnest. Friends, colleagues, my own parents arrived, filling the flat with laughter, chatter, and the scent of flowers and expensive perfume. Everyone toasted, wished me well, gave cards stuffed with pounds sterling and spa vouchers. The mood was warm. Id almost managed to enjoy myself, ignoring Margarets sour expression.
When dessert time came, and Margaret, whod spent the evening looking like she was at a wake, stood up and tapped her fork on a crystal glass for attention.
Ladies and gentlemen, she started in a tone usually reserved for school assemblies or funerals, I have a word for our birthday girl. Thirty-five is a real milestone. A woman at this age should now have wisdom, patience, and, above all, the skill to be the heart of her home.
She rummaged in her bag with a dramatic flourish.
Money comes and goes, she continued, pulling out a large, gift-wrapped parcel. Beauty fades. But skill and devotion are what keep a family together. I thought long and hard about what you needed, Amelia. So Im giving you what you really lack: knowledge.
She plonked the gift down in front of me. The room fell silent. The guests glanced at each other. Nick coughed nervously.
I unwrapped the heavy parcel carefully. It was a massive hardback book. The Great British Household and Cookery Encyclopaedia. The Golden Edition. On the cover, a beaming woman in an apron held a bubbling saucepan.
This isnt just a book, Margaret added, her tone dripping with sickly sweetness. Its almost a family heirloom. I bought it specially, and improved it before giving it to you. Ive marked all the pages with little notes. What Nick likes. The proper way to make stew so it doesnt come out brown and sad. How to starch a shirt so your husband looks like a gentleman, not a vagrant. Use it, love. Never too late to become a good wife!
A nervous giggle. My mum flushed deep red, about to rush to my defence, but I squeezed her hand under the table. Not now. Not here. No scenes on my birthday.
Thank you, Margaret, I said as evenly as I could. Its certainly substantial. Ill study it, of course.
I set the book beside the vase and quickly steered attention back to the cake. The rest of the evening passed in a daze. I kept up the smiles, poured the tea, made the jokes, all the while burning inside with humiliation. It was hardly a gift. It was a slap in the face dressed up in shiny paper.
When the guests had gone and the dishwasher hummed from the kitchen, I sat on the sofa and picked up the book. Nick, avoiding the subject until now, came and perched beside me, draping his arm about my shoulders.
Look, love, dont be upset. She means well, you know. Shes old-fashioned. Maybe overstepped a bit, but she probably thought she was being helpful.
“Overstepped?” I flipped the book open. Look at this, Nick.
It was full of scribbled notes on every other page.
On the inside cover, Margarets bold hand had scrawled: To my dearest daughter-in-law, in hope that my son will stop living off sandwiches and remember what real home cooking is.
Everywhere, more notes: On the page for meatballs Only ever use fresh mince! Shop-bought is for the idle and the incapable. In the cleaning section: Dust under the bed shows what kind of housewife you are; I bet you could plant potatoes under yours. On laundry: Creases should be sharp enough to cut paper. What Nick wears now is a disgrace.
This wasnt a cookbook it was a diary of grievances, painstakingly catalogued to pose as maternal concern. Margaret must have spent hours preparing this. Shed planned it.
She only worries about me, Nick muttered, looking embarrassed as he skimmed a few notes. He actually went a bit pink himself. Shall I just put it away in the loft or something?
No, I snapped the book shut, the sound like a pistol shot. Gifts shouldnt be hidden. They deserve to be treated according to their worth.
For a couple of days, I was lost in thought. Quiet. Nick probably expected fireworks, but I didnt blow up. Instead, I worked, ordered in dinners, and each night before bed, found myself flicking through the book, occasionally jotting in a notepad.
Saturday came the usual day for a family lunch with Margaret. Normally Id look for an excuse, but this time I got ready myself.
Were going to Mums? Nick raised his eyebrows, watching me fix my hair.
Of course. It would be rude not to visit after last Saturday. Ive even got a gift for herin return.
Nick tensed. Please, Amy, dont start a war. Shes just old-fashioned.
Im not starting a war, love. Im ending one.
We arrived at Margarets for lunch. Her house, as always, smelled of fried onions and furniture polish. Immaculately clean, perfectly ironed napkins on the dresser not a speck of dust. She greeted us in an apron, triumphant. Clearly, she thought her gift had done the trick and I was coming to grovel, seeking cookery tips.
Come in, come in, she cooed. Ive just baked some pasties. With cabbage, just as Nick likes. Hope youre hungry? I know what your meals are like
We sat. I was the picture of politeness, praising the pasties, relishing the jelly, asking after her health. Margaret positively bloomed, dropping her guard.
Once wed drunk our second cup of tea, I reached into my bag and retrieved the book. Margaret beamed.
Any questions? Dont hesitate! The pastry section is trickyI can explain
Margaret, I interrupted, voice gentle but steel-edged. I studied your gift. Cover to cover. Every page, every note.
She nodded smugly.
And heres what I realised. This bookits a treasure. The sum of your experience, your outlook. Your whole world.
Quite right! said Margaret, practically glowing with pride.
Which is exactly why I slid the book across the table I cant possibly keep it.
Her smile faltered.
What do you mean; youre returning my present? Good grief, Amelia, thats the height of rudeness!
Please, hear me out I raised a hand. Its not about manners. Its about fit. That book describes the ideal woman: up at five, baking for the family, horrified by dust, serving her husband. Thats you, Margaret. You do it brilliantly.
I paused, looking her straight in the eye.
But its not me. I use my head to earn a living, not my hands. An hour of my work pays for a weeks worth of groceries. If I spent three hours every day making pies, itd cost the family the price of a mini-break. We even did the sums! Its not economically sensible.
Nick spluttered into his teacup, but said nothing, clearly impressed.
More importantly, I laid my hand on the book I read your remarks: incapable, idle, disgraceful. And I realised: that book isnt filled with love. To put it kindly, its heavy with disappointment. Happy people dont write nastiness in gifts.
Margaret flushed furiously.
How dare you! I gave my all
Exactly. You gave all your life to housework. But I want to live my lifewith your son! Loving him, not just feeding him. Talking, walking, travelling. Not glued to a hob.
I took a small envelope from my bag and set it on top of the book.
Im returning your book; its not for me. Our home follows a different philosophy. But I owe you something in exchange. You gave me a how to be a domestic servant manual. Id like to give you something to remind you youre still a woman not just a cook.
Inside is a membership to the citys best dance studio Latin ballroom. And ten sessions with a massage therapist. I noticed your backs been bothering you, probably from all the housework.
A taut silence; you could hear the old carriage clock ticking. Margaret looked from book to envelope to me, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. This must have thrown her. Id handed her bitterness back, wrapped in concern. Any tantrum now, and shed prove my point. If she refused, shed look weak.
Ballroom? At my age?
The very best kind, I smiled. Its a group for your age. Lovely set of people. Perhaps youll see theres a world outside dusting under someone elses bed.
I stood up.
Thank you for lunch, that was truly delicious. Nick, shall we? Weve still time to catch a film.
Nick, whod looked like he might vanish under the table, brightened up. He looked from his mum to me and finally stood, joining me at the door.
Thanks, Mum. Top lunch! he gave a thumbs-up But Amys right. She doesnt need to bake for me. I love her as she is. And actually, Mum I like trying new takeaways: Thai, GeorgianAll sorts. Its fun. Dont be offended.
He kissed his stunned mother on the cheek, slipped his arm round me, and we headed out.
No sound from the kitchen as we put on our coats. Margaret sat, staring at her Golden Encyclopaedia and the dance voucher.
Once in the car, Nick let out a breath he must have been holding a week.
That was genius, Amy! I thought we were in for nuclear war. And you you did it so calmly. Economically sensiblewho thinks like that!
Right? I adjusted the mirror, grinning. I just set some boundaries. Your mums not a bad person. But shes shackled to old patterns. She secretly wants me to be as exhausted by housework as shes always been so her sacrifices feel justified. But I dont want that.
Do you think shell actually go to those classes? Nick snorted, starting the engine.
Who knows? Maybe shell throw it away. Maybe shell go. But either way, she wont force that book onto me again. Or tell me off about the dust.
A week went by. Margaret rang, briefly asked after us, then ended the call. The book wasnt mentioned.
A month later, one lazy Saturday, Nicks mobile rang, waking us up.
Hi Mum? What, not this week? Why? Wait, what concert?
He put her on speaker.
yes our end-of-term show is in two weeks! Rehearsals every day! My partners Peterex-RAF, so strict, but he leads beautifully. So sorry, darlings, therell be no pasties. Order yourselves a oh whats it called, pizza! Must dashmy dance shoes are still too stiff!
The call ended. Nick and I stared at each other, then burst out laughing.
It worked! I flopped back onto the pillows. Peter! Ex-military, fancy that. Poor man, hope hes prepared to be taught how to iron to military standards.
At least shes finally off our backs, Nick grinned. Sushi for breakfast?
Absolutely. The largest set.
As I stared up at the ceiling, I felt lighter than I had for years. Turns out, to win at mother-in-law wars, you dont have to clash or try to please. You just hand back someone elses expectations, and offer something that might change their life for the better. The poisonous cookbook belonged to yesterday. Today was freedom, a lazy Saturday, and a husband who loved me not for my shepherd’s pie but simple for being me. Thats the true recipe for happinessand youll never find it in any encyclopaedia.
