Buckwheat Instead of Truffles
I stood by the hob, staring at the saucepan where my efforts of the past two hours were unravelling right before my eyes. The creamy truffle sauce for my wild mushroom risotto ought to have been silky, smooth, almost alive. Instead, it had curdled. The butter floated on the top, the thick base clumped and stuck to the bottom.
I turned down the heat and began whisking in cold butter, one tiny cube at a time, stirring round and round. My hands remembered the motion on their own. It was already growing dark outside, the street lamps along Marylebone Lane flickered on, and cars hissed past below. A typical October evening in London.
Emma, are you going to be much longer? Ive not eaten since two.
David stood just outside the kitchen doorway. He always hovered there, never crossing into what seemed to him foreign territory, hands buried in his pockets, wearing that expression I never quite learned to name, even after twenty-three years. Not impatience. Something else.
Twenty minutes or so, I replied without turning. The sauces being a bit temperamental.
Twenty minutes. Got it.
He walked off. I heard him flop onto the sofa in the sitting room, the TV clicking on, then the sound immediately turned down almost to nothing. That, too, was a signal. Id learned to read them all.
The sauce eventually came together. Not perfect, but nearly. The risotto was just right, with that elusive, creamy pull. I plated everything, shaving over slivers of black truffle Id bought at the market from a trusted stallholdera slice that cost as much as what Ruth and I used to pay for a meal out at any decent café.
I set the table. Lit two candlesnot for romance, but because food and I both looked better in candlelight. Tired lines are less obvious that way.
David sat down, fork in hand, staring at the plate.
For a long moment, he just stared.
Risotto again, he finally said.
You asked for something with mushrooms.
I asked for something mushroomy. Didnt mean it had to be risotto. I had risotto last week at Toms placethe chef there is a professional. Hard to compare.
I took my seat. Picked up my own fork.
Taste it first, I said.
He did. Chewed slowly, giving off the air of a judge at a provincial bake-off.
Rice is a bit overdone.
Its al dente. Thats how its meant to be.
According to you, he replied. All right, fine.
We ate in silence. I found myself watching the candle flames. He eyed his food with that same unreadable air. Outside, London hummed along, oblivious to risotto.
The sauce is a bit too rich, he added when his plate was nearly clean.
I said nothing.
You want to know why I tell you these things? he pressed. Because Im honest. You want to develop as a cook, dont you? Not just have your ego stroked.
I never asked, I replied.
Shame.
He left to watch football, and I cleared up, washed the dishes, scraped the last of the truffle sauce from the pana sauce Id remade three times, having read up on the proper French technique in a book Id bought at cookery school for ninety pounds. A sauce Id carried home across half the city in a special container so it wouldnt split.
Too rich.
I placed my hands on the edge of the sink and watched the water swirl away. Dried my hands, turned off the light, and went to the bedroom.
Business as usual.
***
Margaret Turner arrived on Saturday at three. She always phoned beforehandabout forty minutes warninggiving me time to tidy the sitting room and pop something in the oven for tea. My mother-in-law was one of those people who notice disorder but never say so outright, only let their gaze drift along the windowsills.
She was seventy-eight, petite and wiry, with straighter posture than most women half her age could hope for. She’d lost her husband six years ago and had since stayed put in her North London flat, resisting Davids efforts to convince her otherwise. Id never tried to get her to move, and we both knew that. It was a mutual understanding never spoken.
That Saturday, she looked a little paler than usual. I noticed it as I opened the door.
Come in, Mrs. Turner. Ive made a walnut loaf.
Thank you, Emma. Is David in?
Hes gone to Toms. Said hell be back this evening.
She nodded and headed to the kitchenwhich was odd. She usually preferred the sitting room, curling up in the armchair by the window.
I poured tea and sliced the loaf. We sat across from each other.
How are you feeling? I asked.
Oh, fine. Blood pressure a bit up, but nothing unusual.
She nibbled delicately at the loaf.
Tasty, she said, so simply and warmly that my throat caught a little.
We sat quietly for a while. Mrs. Turner sipped her tea in tiny, measured gulps, gazing out at the half-bared trees outside, blown nearly bare by late October winds.
Emma, may I ask you something? she finally said. I hope you wont mind.
Ill try not to.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Do you remember you used to be a designer?
The question threw me.
I remember, yes.
A good one?
They said so.
I know so. I saw your work, you knowthe flat you did for that doctors family, near Regents Park? I went round once. It was beautiful. I thought, Theres someone who really sees a room.
I gazed at her.
What are you getting at, Mrs Turner?
She set down her cup. Carefully, the way people do whove had a lifetime of suppressing any extra noise or motion.
Im ashamed, she confessed, softly.
I didnt know what to say. Mrs. Turner was from a generation that kept certain things silent, always.
I should have spoken to you before. Ten years ago, when you left your job. But I kept out. Thought it wasnt my business. Thought maybe you wanted it. Maybe it was meant to be.
She studied her hands on the tablehands that, even at her age, appeared graceful, with tidy nails and slender fingers.
And David doesnt like fancy food.
I wondered if Id misheard.
Sorry?
He doesnt like fancy stuff. Never has. He’s had a sensitive stomach since youththe doctor said, when he was about twenty, to stick to plain food: porridge, stews, boiled beef. Mince and mash. Hes loved mince and mash since he was a boy. He could eat it every day with a bit of butter.
The kitchen fell quiet. The fridge hummed quietly, like a far-off parallel life.
Then why I began, but my voice wasnt really mine.
Why did he fuss about truffles and sauces not being silky, yes.
She looked up at me with something old and weighty in her eyesnot anger, not pity, something heavier.
It was about the performance, you see. He liked to watch you strive. Watch you try. Spend money, time, energy, then wait for his verdict. Saying it wasnt good enoughthat gave him a certain… edge.
I lowered my cup to the saucer.
You do realise what youre saying?
I do. I thought about it for a long time before sitting here today. I understand what Im saying.
And you stayed quiet for ten years.
Thirty-eight, Emma. Since Colin started to behave the same way with me.
Colin, Davids father. I hardly knew himhe died a year after our wedding. I remembered him as a big, booming man, always well-mannered with company.
He liked his gourmet food, she said, bitterness barely cloaked. I would cook, strive, and hear too dry or too greasy. Then one day I saw him at his mothers cottage, eating plain porridge with such utter contentmentthree helpings, with butter and bread. No criticism, just home.
I sat silent, rain now trickling down the windowpane.
I saw it then. But I didnt leave. Different times, you understand. And David grew up watching itand learned. It became a tool. He used that tool.
You mean… on purpose. It wasnt a question. Not anymore.
Its not always conscious, Emma. Not many people deliberately think Now Ill hurt my wife. Its how they learn to feel important.
I stood up, not to go anywhere, just because sitting felt impossible. I went to the window and watched the rain on the shining road and people with umbrellas hurrying.
Ten years.
Ten years of cookery courses. Beginners, advanced, then French and Italian masterclasses. Ten years of books and videos and internet chats with chefs; of trawling specialist markets for the perfect cheese or mushroom; wine pairings, flavour balancing, nights waking with a new idea about a sauce.
I thought this was my calling. That, since Id left design, Id found something equally real.
And all the while, he quietly just wanted mince and mash.
Why are you telling me this now? I asked without turning.
Because Im old, said Mrs Turner gently. And youre not. Youre fifty-two, not elderly at all. Its really the beginning.
I turned. She met my eyesno trace of pity. And that mattered most.
And, she continued more softly, because Im to blame, in my way. Not on purpose. But I raised him like that. I never taught him otherwise. I lived the way I had to, and he saw, and took it as normal. Thats on me. The least I can do now is to tell you the truth.
I returned to the table. Sat. Sipped cooled tea.
He wont change, she said. Im not saying what you should do. But you ought to know.
We finished our tea, mostly in silence. Then she bundled up in her coat and let me help her with the buttons, her fingers now sometimes stiff.
The walnut loaf was lovely, she said by the door.
Thank you.
Simple, homey. Best thing youve baked for me.
She left. I closed the door and stood in the hallway, staring at Davids coats.
***
For the next fortnight, I kept on as usuala reflex. Duck terrine, lobster bisque (requiring a special trek for prawns), Japanese-style dessert Id learned at a spring course.
David ate. He criticised. I listened, said nothing.
But inwardly something was different. I felt as though a clear pane of glass was now between myself and reality. I saw myself from the outside: me stirring lemon zest in, adding saffron, waiting for him to taste and pronounce his judgement.
And for the first time, I truly saw it: the pleasure.
Not from the food. From the anticipation. The small gleam as he prepared to say something sharp, knowing Id shrink a little. There, the expression was suddenly cleara split-second thrill, like a child about to pull a string.
I remembered old design jobs: entering a space and seeing at once what it could be; talking clients through their wishes, sensing words left unsaid; the quiet joy at the end, when someone stood in their new room beaming.
I had a tiny studio once, in Bloomsbury, shared with two other designers. Wed drink awful coffee and debate colours and textures late into the night.
David said it wasnt serious enough. That I should choose: family or running to building sites. That he made enough; my efforts werent needed and clients were too demanding. Someone needed to be at home.
I chose family. I was forty-two. I assumed thered be time for everything.
Ten years passed.
I picked up my phone and messaged Ruth Spencer, an old colleague. She still ran a small interior practice; wed exchange the odd Christmas greeting.
Hi Ruth. Been meaning to get in touch. Any chance for a coffee soon?
She answered half an hour later.
Emma! Absolutely! Tomorrow, by any chance?
***
We met at a café in Notting Hill. Ruth looked almost unchanged, hair (now flecked with silver) cropped even shorter. She wore it well.
You look well, she said.
Youre a terrible liar, I replied.
She laughed.
All right. You look tiredbut good with it.
We ordered our coffee. I hesitated, then blurted out:
Ruth, any work going? For me, I mean.
She studied me closely.
Are you serious?
Deadly.
Its been ten years, hasnt it?
I know. But I havent forgotten. At least I hope not.
She twirled her cup thoughtfully.
Ive got three jobs on. Ones a big house outside Cambridgewould need an extra set of hands. But youll be like a junior at first, Emma. Not because youre not talented, just because the techs all changed. Client expectations have moved on. Are you prepared for that?
Yes.
And payment?
Whatever you can manage to start.
She checked my face, as if weighing something.
All right. Come in Monday and lets see.
Monday came. Every day, I went in by nine and left at six or seven. I learned new programs, rediscovered techniques. Sometimes I made childish mistakes and got angry at myself. But the old skills slowly returned, like swimmingthe body remembers what the mind forgets.
At home, I cooked mince and mash.
It happened almost by accident. Id come home late, tired, mind whirling with ideas for the Cambridge house, nothing in the fridge but odds and ends. Opened the cupboard. Mince. Spuds. Butter.
I browned the mince, boiled potatoes, mashed them together, added butter. Dished up. Called David.
He stared at his plate as if Id given him a puzzle.
Whats this?
Mince and mash.
I can see that. Are you all right?
Just tired. Its late. Ill do something else tomorrow.
He sat down. Ate silently, clearing his plate without a single comment.
I watched him and thought about what Mrs. Turner had told meabout the cottage, the three bowls, the butter. About finally being home.
David finished, got up and left. No remark, good or bad.
Even that was a kind of answer.
***
The conversation came about two weeks later. Id just got in from work, still thinking about paint colours for a country house. I slipped off my shoes, heard the TV burbling in the lounge.
Where have you been? David called, not turning round. Its gone eight.
Working.
Again, with Ruth.
This is my job, David.
He switched off the TV and faced me.
Emma, this wasnt the plan.
What wasnt?
You being out all hours. This is a family. This is a home. Theres nothing in the fridge!
There are eggs, potatoes and ham. You can make something.
He stared as if Id lapsed into a foreign dialect.
Are you joking?
No. Im telling you whats there.
And where are your truffles? Wheres that fancy stuff? Dont you remember how to cook properly?
I put my bag down, hung up my coat.
David, can we talk calmly? Are you willing to do that?
About what?
Us. These last years. Whats happening in this house.
He stiffenedshoulders forward, eyes narrowed a touch.
Whats happening? I work, you stay home.
Im not staying home anymore. And I wont again.
So thats it then. Decided. Without even talking?
Im trying to talk now.
He stood, paced to the window, stopped, came back.
Emma. I dont know whats got into you. You used to be normal. We had a normal life. You cooked, I offered feedback. That was our world, you see? Ours.
Yours, David. Not mine.
Oh rightthis is about Mum, isnt it? She talked to you, didnt she?
I looked at himthe man Id spent twenty-three years with, in a flat inherited from his parents, where nothing had ever truly been mine: these high ceilings, these walls, the furniture chosen before my time. Never once had I redecorated, although I always saw how it could be better. Once a designer.
She told me the truth, I said. Just the truth.
What truth? That she loves to stir up drama, is that it?
That you prefer plain food. That your stomach isnt strong. That youve always loved mince and mash.
A pause.
A tiny beat, but it was there.
Thats nonsense, he said.
You finished an entire plate two weeks ago. Didnt say a word.
I was hungry!
David, please. Just stop. Lets talk honestly. Are you willing to live differently? Not like the last ten years?
Something flickered across his face. Almost real.
Live differentlyhow?
As equals. You work, I work. Food can be plain or fancy, but its not ammunition. We both speak honestlyno games.
A long silence.
I never belittled you, he finally said, quietly. I was just being honest. Thats who I am.
David.
What?
Youre the honest man who pretended he didnt like mince and mash while I wasted money and time on truffles.
Silence.
That wasnt honest, I told himmatter-of-fact, no heat.
He said nothing. Walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind himnot slamming, simply closing. That, too, was a statement.
I went into the kitchen, fried up some potatoes, ate on my own at the table. Then sat for a long while with a mug of tea, listening to his footsteps in the bedroom.
***
The next few months felt like the slow thaw that comes after a long freeze. Nothing dramatic, no weepy confrontations like in the films. Just every day, another sliver of habit crumbling away.
David tried various methods.
First came sulking. For days he wore an air of grave offence, waiting for me to come asking, to make it up. I didnt. I kept meals simple: soup, mince, potatoes. Tidied the house. Went to work. Came home again.
Then he tried tenderness. He brought tulips home, awkward, bought from a market stall in November. Said he missed me, suggested eating out. We did. He was charming, asked about my job, laughed more easily than in years. I thought, maybe things are changing.
But the next day, he asked why I hadn’t cooked something special for his friends coming round Sunday, just like that, as if it was obvious.
Ill make pasta and a salad, I said.
Pasta?
Yes. Pasta.
Really?
Absolutely.
And then saw itthat face again. He didnt yet realise I could see it.
Later came rows proper, the full scale. Voices raised, marching about the flat, reeling off everything hed ever done for methe flat, the money, the chance not to work, the luxury of cookery classes. These were investments, apparently, that Id failed to repay.
You invested, I told him evenly during one such clash. But Im not a business, David. Im a person. That works differently.
He didnt get it. Or didnt want to.
Mrs Turner phoned every week still. Short, never pushy. Take care, Youre bravelittle things. Once she said:
Hes cross with me, isnt he?
A bit, I admitted.
Let him be. Hes got that right. But rememberIm on your side. For the first time in my life, I feel that. I never did before, you see.
I did see.
In December, Ruth gave me my first independent project. Modesta young familys flat in Islington. I needed to work up a concept and guide the whole thing through. I didnt sleep for several nights. Not because I didnt know what to do, but because I did, and was terrified Id forgotten how to do it well.
But I hadnt.
The client, a woman of about thirty, walked into the furnished space, stopped and stared for half a minute, then turned to me.
Youre a magician, she said.
And I remembered that feeling. Thats what it was called.
***
In February, I realised that David and I were finished. Not for lack of trying. I gave him chances, I talked, I stayed the nights, didn’t ring a solicitor, though articles about toxic relationships kept popping up and, yes, I read them, recognising the details. I stayed and tried to build something new where the old had collapsed.
But he did not want new.
He wanted the old Emma: someone by the cooker, waiting for his verdict. Not a wife, but a mirror in which he saw himself as important.
When do you know your husband is a manipulator? Maybe thats it: when you see that your happiness, your joy, your fulfilment matter less to him than your anticipation of his approval. When, without that anticipation, he no longer knows who he is.
David wasnt a bad person, not by many standardshe didnt drink, he didnt hit, he provided, didnt cheat (as far as I knew), cared in his way, or at least for something he called love.
But you cant live with someone who quietly erodes you, drop by drop, until you shrink, forget what shape you used to be.
I filed for divorce in March.
At first he refused to believe it. Then he pleaded. Then got angry. Then pleaded again. Mrs Turner came round and, whatever she said, afterwards David deflated. He didnt accept it, not reallyjust withdrew, went cold.
The flat was his; Id always known it was. I moved in with my friend Ruth, who had a spare room, for three months until I found my own place. In June, I moved into a modest flat in Bethnal Greena two-bed, looking onto a gritty side street, not grand but real.
I did up the flat myself. Just superficial fixes, but every choice was my own, each detail picked out with joy that sometimes made me laugh by myself. It turned out Id always known what I liked. I just hadnt asked.
***
A year later.
Now its April. Im fifty-three. Outside the window of my Bethnal Green flat, theres a line of street trees frothing with small white blossomdont know what kind, but every morning, I look as the kettle boils.
I make coffee the old-fashioned way, in a cafetiere. Good beans, but no ceremony.
Ruth took me into the partnership formally this January. Weve got four projects on, Im handling two. Im sleeping well again. Sometimes I wake up thinking about floor plans or daylight or how to tweak a clients awkward living roombut these are good awakenings: my brain working, not my nerves.
Mrs Turner still calls once a week. Recently I visited her with a homemade cake. We sat for hours, chatting about everything and nothingher marriage, the years of silence. I thought about emotional inheritance, how one unhappy generation can teach the next until someone finally says: no more.
Mrs Turner could not, in her time. But she helped me to. That matters.
David lives in his flat. We exchange the odd message, rarely. Heard from mutual friends that hes signed up to a cookery class. Maybe its true. People sometimes change when theres no one left to perform for.
I dont think about him often. Sometimes, in a shop, I see a jar of truffle and pause a moment, feeling something not quite regret, not quite amusementa complicated knot of ten years you cant just sweep away.
But I try not to stick in the past.
I met Andrew last September. He came as a client: wanted his flat redone after his wife died of cancer two years prior. The place felt heavy with her things and photos. He said: Dont remove the picturesjust brighten the place up, make it easier to breathe.
I understood immediately.
Hes fifty-four, an engineer who designs bridges. Ive thought, more than once, that its not a bad parallel: he builds bridges, I shape living spaces.
Hes calm, not quiet, just grounded. Listens properly, looks you in the eye, laughs when somethings funnynever tries to seem more significant than he is.
At our second meeting he asked if Id like to get coffee afterwards.
We did. Then a stroll. Then more coffee. Then cinemasome French film, not bad. He laughed softly in a few places and I realised Id forgotten the pleasure of being next to a simply alive, warm person.
Weve been seeing each other for a few months. No rushwe both know theres nothing to hurry for. Weve both survived things.
He comes for supper on Fridays.
***
Its Friday.
I arrive home around six, unpack my groceries. Chicken thighs, potatoes, onions, carrots, a bunch of dill, some crème fraîche.
From these you get an English-style hotpot, reallyjust layers of potato, chicken, onion, carrot, a dollop of crème fraîche and into the oven for an hour, then the dill on top.
Simple, homely. Not sophisticated.
As it baked, I changed, enjoying the aroma filling the flat: onion and butter and roasting chicken, just a whisper of garlic. The scent of real foodsomething my grans kitchen always carried. I hadnt thought of that in twenty years.
At seven, the intercom buzzed.
I let him in. Andrew stepped into the hall, setting down a bag with something peeking outa bottle of wine up top.
Evening, he said.
Hello. Smell anything?
He sniffed the air.
Smells good. Potatoes?
Hotpot. Give it another half hour.
Perfect, he said, shrugging off his coat. Brought some wine. And rummaging in his bag these.
He revealed a simple box of chocolate trufflescommon shop brand, milk chocolate with hazelnut pieces.
You like nuts, right?
I took the box.
How did you remember?
You mentioned it in September, when we passed that pastry shop.
I stood holding the box, overwhelmed by something too big for words.
You remember small things, I said.
I try, he replied, nothing showy about it.
We headed for the kitchen. I checked the hotpotalmost there. He opened the wine and poured us each a glass, settling onto the stool at the table.
Hows the project on Charing Cross Road? he asked.
Challenging client, I admitted. Wants everything, only not to pay for it.
Happens.
It does, I said. But the ceilings are five metreswould be criminal not to make the most of them.
He nodded, watching me stir something on the hob.
Emma, he said.
Hm?
Are you happy? Right nownot in general. This very second.
I met his gaze. He meant it.
Right now? I echoed, turning inward. Yes. Yes, I am.
Good, he said. He didnt need to say more.
The hotpot was ready. I took it from the oven, let it rest, sprinkled dill on top. Served it upno candles, just the kitchen light.
Andrew looked at the dish.
Looks fantastic, he said.
Its only hotpot.
Smells fantastic, too. Looks great. Dont you ever do ugly food?
I laughed.
I havent tried.
He ate heartily, then quietly asked for secondsjust held out his plate, no fuss. I gave him more. We chatted about his daughters plans in Liverpool, about him possibly visiting Finland in May; about how Id like to travel a bit, just to breathe different air. He said hed come along, wouldnt mind Finland.
Then we had tea. Ate those shop-bought chocolates.
Out the window London lay glittering, April-slick and fragrant with wet tarmac and ghostly blossom. The white trees outside tossed gently in the wind.
I thoughtthis is it. Not a celebration, not an event; just evening, just a living, warm person beside me and food that smells of home and not a single instant waiting for a verdict.
Sometimes I think about those yearslobster bisque and truffle sauce, panicked over curdled emulsions, spending my days trying to hear, Too rich. I feel regret. For the time perhaps, for myself. But too much regret is a luxury I no longer allow.
I remember reading something about a womans self-esteem, how, as if its immutable like height or eye colour. But it isnt. Self-esteem is built and sometimes demolished, sometimes rebuilt from scratch at fifty-two, on someone elses kitchen in Ruths studio, swearing at new software but refusing to quit. Staying. Gradually seeing space again.
Personal boundaries, too, is a fashionable phraseIve never liked buzzwords. But what it stands for I now understand: simply knowing where you end and someone else begins. Not a wall, just clarity: this is me. This is mine.
The simple recipe for happiness is exactly that, I think. Doing what youre good at. Being with those who see you. Cooking what you like. Not waiting for approval.
What are you thinking? Andrew asked.
I looked at him, his untroubled face, the mug of tea in his hands.
Hotpot, I said.
He chuckled.
A fine subject for thought.
The best, I agreed. Want more tea?
Please.
I got up, refilled our cups, put the kettle back. Gazed out at the white-blossomed street.
Andrew.
Yes?
Youll never tell me the foods a bit salty, will you?
He looked up.
It wasnt too salty, he answered, perfectly straight. It was spot on.
And if ever I do over-salt something?
He considered.
Ill say, Next time, a bit less, and eat it anyway.
I nodded.
Good answer.
I do my best, he said, reaching for the last truffle. Is it OK if I take this one?
Go on, I said.
Outside, the white branches shivered, and London hummed quietly and steadily, as if the city didnt care about anyones plate or sauce, truffles or mince, the years that have gone or those still to come. The city just lives. And so do I. The tea was hot, the scent of roast potatoes lingered in the small kitchen, and a single houseplant on the sill glowed green in the evening lighta new purchase, because the colour made me smile.
I just liked the colour.
Thats how I live now.
