So my daughter-in-law cant even make a proper cuppa, let alone cook a decent meal. Everything she serves is just dreadfulhonestly, its a nightmare.
I was over at my mate Margarets the other day, and I couldnt help but ask, “Why on earth are you peeling this mountain of potatoes and stuffing them into pickle jars? And why make an entire pot of beef stew when its just you at home?”
She sighed and wiped her forehead. “Its for my son, Oliver. I feel sorry for him, poor lad. His wife, Emilybless hercant even brew tea right, never mind cook. Half the time, its frozen meals zapped in the microwave or takeaway. Everythings greasy, oversalted, or just plain sad. Hes not made of iron, you know? His stomach wont last forever. So, Ive prepped a salad, made a stew, jarred the potatoes. At least this way, he can have something homemade when he gets in from work. Just pop the jar opendinners ready. Or toss the potatoes and meat in a pan, quick and tasty.”
Now, let me tell it from my own side. Maybe then youll get where Im coming from.
Im not one of those meddling mums who pokes her nose into her kids marriages. Live and let live, I say. My son, William, chose his wifeSophieand shes sweet enough, polite. But heres the thingshe cant cook. Worse, she wont learn. Her stance is: *We both work, so chores should be split. We cook together.* Sounds fair, doesnt it? In theory. But what does that actually look like? Instant noodles, fried dumplings from a packet, sauce straight from a jar.
Theyre always rushingeverythings on the go. Wolf something down, collapse into bed. Whats the hurry for? More time scrolling Instagram? Watching TikTok? They dont even have kids yet! Why not take half an hour to make a proper dinner? Why not look after each other?
You might askhow do I know all this if Im not interfering? Well, heres how. Williams started dropping by mine more often. Always with that same line: “Mum, got anything to eat?” At first, I thought he just fancied my shepherds pie. Then one day, I just came out with it”Do you even eat properly at home?”
And he told me. Yeah, they *cook*… sometimes. But mostly, its takeaways. Quick, nasty, and pricey. Ive been round theirs a couple of timesmeals looked lovely on the plate. But turns out? All delivery. Heat it up, serve it fancyand theres dinner.
I nearly cried. My boys no prince, mind you. Just a working man, putting in ten-hour days, coming home to a sausage bap or a microwave burger. And her? If shes like this now, whatll happen if they have kids? Raising them on drive-thru meals?
Look, Im not about to barge in and play teacher. Too late for that. If her own mum didnt show her, what hope have I got? Id only make things awkward. Who needs that?
So, I do this instead. Peel potatoes, slow-cook a joint of beef, pack it all into jars. He takes it homeat least he eats. Ive got the time after work. What else am I doing, binge-watching telly? Might as well make a stew. Its no big sacrifice, just care. Mums care.
Maybe you reckon I shouldnt baby himhes a grown man. But when he turns up at my door, knackered and starving, my heart just cant take it. Im his mum. And Ill never get this modern way of thingswhere cookings seen as some awful chore, not an act of love. Simple, warm, everyday love.
Maybe Im just getting old. Maybe I dont fit in this new world where Deliveroos closer than a stockpot.
