When Michael and I stepped into Emily’s flat, the scent that wrapped around me nearly made me forget why we’d come at all. The air was rich with the aroma of freshly roasted meat, warm pastries, and spices that seemed to dance between us. I paused in the doorway, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply—it was the smell of home, of festivity, of something almost enchanted. And when I opened my eyes to the table, I was utterly speechless. The dishes arranged there could’ve belonged in a museum of culinary art. Truthfully, I didn’t know whether to marvel or to reach for a plate straightaway.
Emily, my dear friend, had always been skilled in the kitchen, but this time she’d outdone even herself. Michael and I had been invited for supper—just a casual evening, she’d said, with no special occasion, just a chance to chat and spend time together. I’d expected something simple: perhaps a salad, maybe a roasted chicken, tea with biscuits. But what I saw was nothing short of a feast. The table groaned under the weight of it all: a golden-sheathed pork loin crusted with herbs, rosemary-kissed roast potatoes, vegetables arranged like a still-life painting, and a pie with a buttery lattice top that smelled of apples and cinnamon. And the sauces—three of them, in delicate little jugs, each a masterpiece in its own right.
“Emily, are you starting a restaurant?” I blurted out, unable to tear my eyes away. She only laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, Lizzie, I just fancied spoiling you both. Sit down—let’s dig in!” Michael, usually a man of few words, was already reaching for his fork, but I nudged him. “Wait—I need a photograph first. This deserves to be on social media!” Emily rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased. That was just like her—cooking with such care, then brushing it off as though it were nothing.
We took our seats, and the feast began. The meat melted on my tongue, carrying hints of garlic and something else I couldn’t 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 salad of tomatoes and cucumbers become something extraordinary? Michael, who usually ate in silence, surprised us by declaring, “Emily, if you cook like this every day, I’m moving in.” We all chuckled, but I noticed him eyeing the serving platter for seconds.
As we ate, Emily shared stories of her preparations. She’d spent the entire day in the kitchen, she said, and some recipes were her grandmother’s. “This pie,” she explained, “Gran made it for every holiday. I just added a touch more vanilla and cinnamon.” Listening, I wondered how she had the patience. I could barely manage an hour in the kitchen myself. My signature dish was cheese on toast—and only if the cheese was pre-grated. But this? A symphony of flavours, all crafted with such devotion that it made me want to hug her.
Yet the most remarkable thing was the atmosphere she’d created. Not just the food, but the entire flat seemed to hum with warmth. A small vase of flowers graced the table, candles flickered in the soft light, and quiet jazz played from the speakers. I realised I hadn’t felt so at ease in ages. Even Michael, who usually retreated to his phone after meals, stayed present, smiling and sharing tales from his youth. Emily had turned an ordinary evening into something magical.
Between a second slice of pie and a cup of herbal tea, I asked, “Emily, how do you find the time? Work, the house, and then these incredible suppers?” She paused, then answered, “You know, Lizzie, cooking’s a sort of meditation for me. I put on music, chop vegetables, knead dough—and all my worries fade. And seeing you enjoy it? That makes it worth it.” I looked at her and wished I had just a fraction of her talent—and patience. Maybe then I’d bake pies instead of dialling for takeaway.
As we prepared to leave, Emily pressed a container of leftover pie and meat into my hands. “Take it,” she insisted. “For later.” I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Lizzie, don’t argue—I made it for you.” Stepping outside, it struck me that the evening hadn’t just been about food. It was about friendship, about warmth, about the joy of giving. Emily had reminded me how precious it is to pause, to gather, and to savour the moment.
Now I’m thinking of inviting her over—but I’m already in a panic. What on earth would I serve? My cheese on toast wouldn’t compare. Perhaps I could order sushi and pretend I tried? Only joking. Maybe I’ll ask for a recipe or two and attempt to impress her. And if it all goes wrong? I’ll just smile and say, “Emily, you’re the queen of the kitchen—I’m still learning.” And I know, without a doubt, she’d laugh and tell me the company’s what matters most. And that’s just like her.
