My house, my kitchen, my mother-in-law declared with that air she always has.
Thanks for taking away even my right to make a mistake. In my own home
In my home, Eleanor Watson cut me off quietly, but firmly. This is my house, Emily. And on my kitchen, inedible things have no place.
The kitchen fell silent.
Em, darling, you must understand, it simply wasnt fit to put on the table, Eleanor added, pouring tea into delicate bone china cups with her usual precision. Your parents are lovely people. I couldnt have them chewing on that sole-of-a-shoe. She glanced at the plates my parents, whod just gone into the sitting room with William, had left behind. On them sat the remnants of the infamous solea juicy duck breast with cranberry sauce, the one Id slaved over for hours. Well, I thought it was juicy.
It wasnt a shoe, I said shakily, but made myself look Eleanor right in the eye. I used Mums marinade recipe. I bought a free-range duck especially. Where is it, Eleanor?
Eleanor set the teapot aside with a graceful flick, wiped her hands on a spotless white tea towel.
Without a hint of remorse on her faceonly that condescending pity you show a clumsy puppyshe replied, Down the rubbish chute, dear. That marinade of yours how can I put it? The vinegar stung my eyes.
I made a proper confit. With thyme, slow and steady. Did you see your dad ask for seconds, Emily? Thats what you call quality. What you cobbled together would do for a truck stop café at best.
You had no right, I managed, barely above a whisper. That was my dinner. My anniversary gift to my parents. You didnt even ask.
Eleanor raised an eyebrowher gaze sharp, like the head chef she once was, drilling junior cooks at Mayfair restaurants. Why would I ask? When the house is on fire, you dont seek permission to put it out.
I was protecting the familys reputation. William wouldve been devastated if our guests got food poisoning. And bring out the cake, please. I had to sort that as wellthe icing was too runny, so I added thickener and some zest.
I looked down at my trembling hands. All day Id been a whirlwind in that kitchen, while Eleanor rested in her room. Id measured everything down to the gram, strained sauces, prettied up every plate. I wanted to prove I wasnt just some temporary guest, not just Williams girl, but the woman of the house, someone who could host a dinner.
Yet all it took was a half hour in the shower, trying to freshen up before the guests arrived, and suddenly the professional took over.
Em, what are you doing in there? William poked his head into the kitchen, all smiles and a bit tipsy from the wine. Mum, that duck was spectacular! Em, youve outdone yourself. I never knew you had it in you.
I turned to my husband, slowly.
That wasnt me, Will.
What do you mean? His sheepish grin faltered.
I mean it literally. Your mum threw out my dinner and cooked her own. Everything you hadfrom the starter to the mainwas made by her.
Will hesitated, looking from me to his mother. Eleanor, of course, busied herself polishing an already spotless worktop.
Em Look, Mum meant well. If she saw something wasnt going right Shes a pro, you know that, shes obsessed with quality. But it was delicious! My parents loved it. Does it matter who was at the stove if we had a great evening?
Does it matter? I felt tears stinging my eyes. It matters, Will, because Im nobody in this house. Furniture. Decoration. I spent three days planning that menu. I wanted my parents to taste my cooking, not hers. Instead, your mum once again made sure I looked useless, someone who cant even whip up a proper sauce.
Nobody thinks that of you, Eleanor interjected smoothly, folding the towel. We didnt tell them. They think it was you. I saved your reputation, Emily. You might at least thank me instead of making a scene.
Thank you? For robbing me of even my right to fail in my own home?
In my home, Eleanor corrected, even softer but no less resolute. This is my house, Emily. And nasty food doesnt belong in my kitchen.
Silence again. From the lounge, I could just make out the low hum of the telly and my dad chatting to Mum between peals of laughter.
They were happy. They thought their daughter was a star. Meanwhile, I felt like Id been slapped in public, then had salt rubbed in for good measure.
I walked straight out of the kitchen, past my parents.
Mum, Dad, sorryIm not feeling very well. Headache. Will, youll see them out for me?
Whats wrong, love? Mum shot up from the sofa, worried. The duck was divine, maybe you overexerted yourself? Such hard work!
Yes, I nodded, staring somewhere over her shoulder. Completely worn out. I wont do it again.
Shutting our bedroom door behind me, I sat on the bed, that single thought pounding in my head: No more.
Itd been six monthsever since William and I decided to temporarily move in with Eleanor while we saved for a deposit.
If I did the grocery shop, shed rifle through the bags, face scrunched in disgust: Where on earth did you get this tomato? Its plastic. That should be a prop in a film, not in a salad.
If I so much as thought about cooking chips, shed loom behind me, sighing like Id committed a crime.
Eventually, I stopped going into the kitchen when she was in there. Tonight was supposed to be my triumph. Instead, it turned to surrender.
Soft squeak at the door. William poked his head in.
Theyve gone. I think it all went well, except for your little outburst. Mum went too far, Ill talk to her, but
Dont bother, I cut him off, rummaging through the wardrobe for my overnight bag.
What are you doing? He blocked the doorway cautiously.
Im packing. Going to Mum and Dads. Right now.
For heavens sake, Em, dont do this. Over a duck? Seriously? Its just food!
Its not just food, Will! I spun to face him, jumper gripped in my fists. Its about respect. Your mum sees me as an annoying attachment ruining her perfect world. And you let her: Mum means well, shes a pro And what am I? The kitchen trainee?
She never meant to upset you; shes just shes always been like that. Shes a chefperfectionism and all that.
Well, she can live in her perfect worldalone. Or with you. But I want the right to over-salt the soup and burn the eggs in my own home, where nobody throws my hard work in the bin when Im having a shower.
Where are you even going? Its the middle of the night. Cant we just talk it through in the morning?
Nope. If I stay till morning, Ill just get told I made the coffee wrong.
I cant do this anymore, Will. Either tomorrow we start looking for a placeanything, even a tiny roomor or I dont know.
You know we dont have any spare cash, Wills face hardened, a trace of irritation in his voice. Were saving. Another six months, and well have a decent deposit. Why throw money away on rent now? Just wait.
I stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. There was no understanding of my hurtjust calculations, as if he hoped the argument would disappear without him having to lift a finger.
Six months? I laughed bitterly. Therell be nothing left of me by then. Im becoming a ghost in this house.
I rammed essentials into the bag: make-up, underwear, a couple of T-shirts. The bag zipped shut on the third try, its teeth protesting.
When I came out into the hall, Eleanor stood arms folded, braced for a fight.
Staging a walkout? she asked coolly. Act three of Culinary Genius Misunderstood?
No, Eleanor, I replied, pulling on my boots. Its the grand finale. You win. The kitchen is all yours. Chuck out my spice jars as well, theyre surely beneath your standards.
Em, come on! Will ran after me. Mum, say something!
What am I to say? Eleanor shrugged. If a girls ready to end her marriage over a saucepan, perhaps it wasnt much of a marriage.
When I was her age, I learnt from my elders and didnt sulk over every little mistake. But now everyones got to be so proud, such individuals
I didnt hear the rest. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I stepped into the cold, clear night air, which felt fresher than it had in months. As I headed for the lift, voices murmured behind meWill pleading, Eleanor answering in that patronising, teacherly tone of hers.
***
I spent the week at my parents place. They understood more than they let on, though they never pushed. Mum just kept making me stack of her homemade pancakesnothing fancy, just good, honest British food.
Will rang every day. First, he was cross. Then he begged. Then he promised hed properly talk to Eleanor. On the fifth day, he showed up in person.
Em, please come home, he said, looking awfulbags under his eyes, shirt barely ironed. Mum shes unwell.
I froze mid-sip of tea. Whats wrong with her? Blood pressure again?
No, he sank into a chair, face in his hands. Looks like some nasty bug. Her temperature was almost forty for three days straight.
Shes sleeping now, but Em, shes just not herself. She wont eat. She says food has no taste. None at all.
What do you mean? Shes lost her sense of taste?
No, not just that. She says it all feels like chewing paper. And she cant even smell anything anymore. For her, thats you know
She smashed a jar of her favourite spices yesterday because she realised she couldnt detect any aroma. Just sat on the floor and cried. Ive never seen her cry, Em.
My carefully-nursed anger began to melt, as if iced over.
I remembered how Eleanor would start each morning grinding fresh coffee beans, inhaling as if it were oxygen, before shed let anyone else speak. For someone whose entire world was built on flavour and scent, losing taste was like an artist losing sight.
Has she seen a doctor?
She has. They said its complicationssome sort of neural thing. Could come back in a week, or a year. Maybe never. Shes locked herself in her room. Says if she cant taste, theres no point.
I stared out at the snowy streetlights. I pictured Eleanorthis unyielding kitchen generalsat in her flawless kitchen, unable to tell vanilla from garlic. It was terrifying.
Em, Im not asking you to come back for me. But help her, please. Shes scared to cook now.
She tried to make soup the other night and over-salted it so badly I nearly choked, and she didnt even notice till I said something. Shes mortified.
And Im meant to help? She always said I was hopeless, fumbling about. She never even let me near the hob.
Youre her only hope. She wont admit ither pride and all thatbut I saw her looking at your empty shelf in the fridge.
So the next day, I went back. Not because Id forgiven, but because there was a strange kinship there. Eleanor was prickly, but she was part of my life, even if she drove me up the wall.
The flat smelled differentno usual scent of baking or roasted veg. Just dust and loneliness.
I found Eleanor sitting at the kitchen table, looking ten years older. Her hair, usually immaculate, was pulled up haphazardly. She stared into her tea, untouched.
Hello, Eleanor, I said, quietly.
She flinched, slowly lifting her head.
Come to gloat? she asked dully. Go on thenburn a steak, I wont know the difference.
I set my bag down and stepped closer, spotting her trembling handsthe ones that could debone a fish in a flash.
Im not here to gloat. Im here to cook.
Why? She turned towards the window. Cant taste a thing. The worlds gone grey, Emily. Like living in black and white.
I eat bread, its cotton wool. Drink coffee, just hot water. Why waste the ingredients?
I shrugged off my coat.
Because youll be my tongue. And my nose. You tell me what to do, Ill taste.
She let out a weak laugh. You? You can barely tell thyme from dried rosemary.
Well, teach me then. Youre the pro. Or are you giving up?
She was quiet for ages, then looked at her hands, at mea familiar spark flickering: proud, fierce, alive.
You barely know how to hold a knife, she grumbled. Youll slice your hand open in five minutes.
Thats what plasters are for, I said, heading to the fridge. Weve got some beef in here, yes? Shall we make bourguignon?
She got up, moving to the cooker, touching the cold hob.
For bourguignon, you want a good sear. Brown, not burnt. Youd just boil it.
You watch me, I said, grabbing the meat. Sit here, boss me about. But no insultsIm your apprentice, not your punching bag.
She sank heavily into the chair beside the worktop, eyeing my attempts at cutting.
Grips all wrong, she barked suddenly. Thumb on top, index on the side. Dont presslet the knife do the work.
I shuffled my fingers as she directed.
Like this?
Better. Cubes, three centimetres exactly. Any bigger or smaller, they wont all cook right. Thats basic stuff, Emily.
So began our awkward lesson. I chopped, sautéed, splashed wine into the pan. Eleanor couldnt help but sniff the air, her face twisting every time she realised there was nothing.
Now the wine, she instructed. Get some in the panlet the alcohol cook off.
As I did, a delicious, heady aroma filled the room.
What does it smell like? Eleanor asked quietly.
I took a deep breath. Like the end of summer, rain in the woods. Sharp and sweet.
Eleanor shut her eyes, repeating my words to herself, like summoning old memories.
Thatll be the tannins, she murmured. Okay. Add a pinch of sugar.
I tasted. Its nice, but its missing a kick
Mustard. Dijon. Just a hint.
I added, tasted again. My eyes widened. Blimey Its totally different! How did you know? You havent tasted any of it!
She smiled, faint and fleeting. Memory, love. Flavours not only on the tongue. Ive got thousands of cookbooks up here, she tapped her head.
We spent the rest of the evening cooking. When Will got home, the kitchen was filled with mouthwatering smells.
Wow! Will blinked in surprise. Mum, youre back in action?
Eleanor sat in her chair, exhausted, but oddly at peace.
No, Will. Emily did all the work. I just pestered her with advice.
He looked from one to the other, as I wiped my hands on my apron.
Sit and eat, I said. Dont you dare say its too saltywe checked every pinch.
As Will dug into his second helping, Eleanor spoke, barely above a whisper
Emily do you know why I threw out your duck that night?
I paused with my fork mid-air.
Why?
It was fine. Not a masterpiece, but perfectly edible.
Then why?
Eleanors eyes, for the first time, held something I never expectedfear. Just plain human fear.
Because if youd done it perfectly, Id have had nothing to offer. My sons grown, got his own life, and someone new. Im a cook. If Im not feeding people, what am I?
I just wanted to be needed. Prove this was my kingdom.
I put my fork down, suddenly seeing her differently. All this time I thought she was a fortress, a stubborn dictator. Turns out, she was just scared. Hanging onto her pots like a life-raft.
Youll never be unnecessary, Eleanor, I said gently, crossing the room. Wholl teach me to hold a knife properly? I realised today I know nothing about real cooking.
She sniffed, straightening up with that familiar stern snap. Too right. Your hands are still all over the shop. Tomorrow, custard. If you bung thickener in again, Ill bar you from my kitchen.
I grinned. Deal. But if I get it rightI want that honey cake recipe of yours.
Well see how you behave, she muttered, but her hand briefly covered mine on the table, warm and brisk andfor the very first timeinviting.
