Porridge Instead of Truffles
Friday evening. I was standing by the hob, staring as the sauce Id slaved over for two hours began to split right before my eyes. The creamy truffle sauce I wanted for the wild mushroom risotto should have been silky, perfectly smooth, almost alive. Instead, it curdled. The butter floated separately, thick clumps at the bottom.
I lowered the heat, began whisking in cold butter cubes, slowly, in circles. My hands remembered the motion. Outside, the autumn dusk was falling over Marylebone, streetlights flickering on, a gentle traffic hum rising from below. Just an ordinary London October.
Jane, will you be much longer? Ive been starving since two.
David stood in the kitchen doorway, as always, never entering fullylike the kitchen was someone elses world. Hands in pockets, that look on his face I still couldnt name after twenty-three years. Not impatience. Something else.
About twenty minutes, I replied, not turning. The sauce is being a bit fussy.
Twenty minutes. Got it.
He vanished. I heard him flop onto the living room sofa. The TV blared, thenclickmuted to a whisper. Another of his signals. I knew them all.
The sauce came together, nearly perfect in the end. The risotto had that elusive, glutinous texture. I plated it with wisps of black truffle Id bought at the farmers market earlier in the week, that chunk alone costing what used to be lunch for two at a decent café.
I brought it to the table, lit a pair of candlesnot for romance, just because dinnerand Ilooked better by candlelight. Less obvious the tired folds around my eyes.
David sat, picked up his fork, and observed the meal. Studying it.
Risotto again? he finally said.
You asked for something with mushrooms.
I asked for mushrooms. Didnt need to be risotto. Had it last week out with Johnproper chef at that place, you know? Hard to compare.
I sat down opposite, took up my fork. Just try it first.
He chewed, as if conducting an inspection.
The rice is a touch overdone.
Its cooked rightal dente, as it should be.
For you, maybe. Fine.
We ate in silence. I stared into the candles; he examined his plate with that same odd look. Outside, London bustled along, ignorant of risotto.
Sauce is a bit rich, he added at the bottom of the plate.
I said nothing.
You ask why I say these things? Because its honest. You want to grow as a cook, dont you? Not just pat yourself on the back.
I didnt ask, I replied.
Well, you should have.
He went to watch football. I cleared up, washed dishes, scraped the last of the truffle sauceworth the price of a bottle of perfumeoff the pan. Id remade it three times to get it right, following a French cookery book Id bought at that expensive course. Hauled it across the city in a plastic tub so it wouldnt separate.
Rich.
I pressed my palms to the sink, watching the water spiral away. Then dried my hands, switched off the kitchen lights. Headed for bed.
An ordinary night.
***
His mum, Sylvia, arrived Saturday at three. She always called forty minutes ahead. That gave me time to tidy up and knock together something for tea. She was the sort who spotted the tiniest speck of dust but would never say a wordjust a glance at the windowsill.
Seventy-eight this year. Small, spry, back so straight it would make women half her age jealous. Lost her husband six years ago, lived alone in her flat in Golders Green, refusing to move in with us no matter how David tried. I never tried to move her; we both knew it and never said it aloud.
She was paler than usual that day. I saw it as I opened the door.
Come in, Sylvia. Ive made a walnut cake.
Thank you, Jane. Is David in?
Hes gone to Johns, wont be back till evening.
She nodded, made straight for the kitchen, not the living roomher usual haunt for the armchair by the window.
I poured tea, sliced cake. We sat across from each other.
How are you feeling? I asked.
All right. Just my blood pressure. Nothing major.
She nibbled at the cake.
Its lovely, she said, so simply and warmly I almost choked on my own sip of tea.
We sat quietly, Sylvia sipping tea, gazing at the garden where trees rattled in the late October breeze.
Jane, she finally said, may I ask you something? You wont be upset?
Ill try not to.
She studied me, long and steady.
You remember you were a designer, dont you?
I wasnt expecting that.
Yes, of course.
A good designer?
People said so.
I know you were. I saw your workyou redid that flat in St Johns Wood for the family of doctors? I visited once. It was beautiful. I thought, heres someone who really sees the space.
I looked at her.
What are you getting at, Sylvia?
She set down her cup. Precisely, as people do when theyve always had to be careful not to make a sound, not a single movement wasted.
I feel ashamed, she said quietly.
I didnt know what to say. Sylvia never used such wordsher generation knew how to keep silent about crucial things.
I should have told you this years ago. Maybe ten, when you gave up work. But I kept quiet; thought it wasnt my place. Thought, maybe you wanted it this way. Maybe its meant to be.
She glanced at her handselegant even now, neat nails, long fingers.
David doesnt like complicated food, she said.
I must have misheard.
Sorry?
He doesnt. Never did. Delicate stomach, from his youth. Doctor told him years ago to stick to basics: porridge, soups, boiled meats. Would you believe, his favourite meal since he was little is simply mince and mashed potato, or porridge with a bit of butter. Plain and plain again. Could eat it every day.
The kitchen grew quiet; only the dull hum of the fridge punctuated the silence.
Then why, I began, and couldnt finish.
Why does he request foie gras and truffles, why say the sauce isnt silky enough? she finished for me. Yes.
Sylvia looked at me with something in her eyes that chilled mea heaviness older than anger or pity.
Because he liked the process, Jane. Liked to watch you strive, spend money and time and effort, then wait for his word. Liked to say it wasnt quite good enough. That gave him a sense of superiority.
I put down my cup, slowly.
You realise what youre saying?
I do. I thought about it a long time before I sat down here. I know what Im saying.
And you kept quiet for ten years.
I kept quiet thirty-eight years, Jane. Since Colin started doing the same thing to me.
Colin. Colin Davis, her husband, Davids father. I barely knew himhe died a year after our wedding. I recalled only a big, jovial man with perfect public manners.
He was a gourmet himself, she said, a bitterness tucked neatly into her calm tone. I cooked, tried hard, listened to comments on heavy sauces or the meat being dry. Then I once saw him at his mums up in Yorkshire, eating a massive bowl of porridgelike hed finally come home. Three helpings. Butter and bread. No criticism, just eating, happy.
I sat and listened. Rain began to ping against the window.
I realised then. Didnt leave. Different times, and I didnt leave. David saw it. Learned it works. Saw you could keep someone like that. Learned it was an instrument. And he picked it up and used it.
On purpose, I saidnot a question, not anymore.
I dont think he ever sat down thinking: Ill belittle my wife now. People just live as theyve seen. As they know how. As makes them feel importantat someone elses expense.
I stood up, not to go anywhere, just because sitting became impossible. I looked out at the rain, on the shiny street below, umbrellas passing by.
Ten years.
Ten years I attended cookery classeselementary, advanced, French, Italian. Studied cookbooks, watched online tutorials, emailed with chefs. Commuted across town for the right ingredients, paired wines, obsessed about flavour balance. Woke at night with thoughts about how to perfect a sauce.
I thought it was my new career, my callingsomething true for when I left interior design.
But all the while, inside, he just wanted porridge.
Why are you telling me this now? I asked, not turning.
Because Im old, Jane. But youre still young. Fifty-two isnt old. Its almost a beginning.
I turned. She met my eyes, no pityexactly what I needed.
And because Im guilty. Not intentionally. I made him that way. Didnt teach him otherwise. Lived as I did, showed him it was normal. Thats my fault. Maybe this is one thing I can do: tell you the truth.
I returned to the table. Sat. Cradled the cooling tea.
He wont change, she said. Im not telling you what to do. But you ought to know.
We finished our tea, almost in silence. Soon, she bundled herself up, I helped with her buttons as her fingers sometimes lost their sway.
The walnut cake really was good, she said at the door. Simple. Homemade. The best youve ever given me.
She left. I stood a while in the hallway, staring at Davids old jackets on the hook.
***
The next two weeks, I cooked as always. Just by inertia. Made duck terrine, lobster bisque that required a special trip out west, a Japanese-style dessert Id learnt at a spring workshop.
David ate. Criticised. I listened and said nothing.
But something shifted in me, a sheet of glass between myself and the goings-on. I watched myself from a distance: standing by the stove, zesting a lemon, adding saffron, carrying in a plate and waitingand waiting. That look on his face, just before speaking.
And I saw, for the first time, the pleasure.
Not from the food, but the expectation. The knowledge that hed deliver a judgement and I would flinch, ever so slightly. That fleeting, almost childish satisfactionlike before pulling a string for effect.
My mind wandered to my design projectshow Id once walked into empty spaces and could see them finished, whole, just waiting to be realised. How Id converse with clients and understood not only what they said but what they truly wanted. The joy when they finally saw a room realised and just stopped to take it in.
I had my own little studio on Bayswater Road with two other designers. We drank bad coffee, squabbled over swatches into the night.
David called it frivolous. I needed to choosefamily or pacing around building sites. He earned more; I didnt need to work. Clients were tricky, it was bad for the nerves. Someone had to keep the home.
I chose family, aged forty-two. Thought there would be time to go back.
A decade passed.
One evening, almost on a whim, I made porridge for dinner. I got home late, shattered, brain fuzzed with plans and palettes. Raided the cupboardporridge oats, tinned stew, butter. Smashed the whole lot together for supper.
Dinner, I called.
He looked at the bowl like it was a riddle.
Whats this?
Porridge with stew.
I can see its porridge. Are you all right?
Im tired. Its late. Tomorrow Ill cook something else.
He ate in silence. Not a single complaint. Finished it all.
I watched him, remembering what Sylvia had saidfrom her village, three bowls, happy at last, nothing fancy.
He finished, left the kitchen. No words. Not good, not bad.
That told me enough.
***
The conversation happened two weeks later. Id just got in, thinking about a tricky colour scheme for a project. Keys, shoes, bags off. TV from the lounge.
Where the hell have you been? David grunted, eyes glued to the screen. Its passed eight.
Work.
Still at that office with Vera Barnes?
Thats my job, David.
He switched off the TV and spun around.
Jane. This isnt what we agreed.
Agreed what?
That youd be off all day, doing who-knows-what. We have a family. A home. What do we even eat? The fridge is bare.
There are eggs, potatoes, and sausages. You can fry something.
He looked at me as if Id started speaking Polish.
Youre joking?
No. Telling you whats in the fridge.
And where are your truffles? Your sauces, all that? You do remember how to cook properly, dont you?
I set my bag down calmly, shrugged off my coat.
David, can we just talk, quietly? Can we do that?
About what?
About us. These last years. Whats been happening in this flat.
He tensedshoulders in, eyes narrowing.
Whats happening? I work, youre at home.
Im not at home anymore. Nor will I be.
So, youve decided. No discussion.
Im trying to have one now.
He got up. Paced to the window, stopped, then back again.
Jane. I dont know whats gotten into you. You used to be normal. We had a normal family. Youd cook, Id judge. That was our world. Yours and mine.
Your world, David. Not mine.
Ah. Thought so. My mum? I knew itcame in here and filled your head.
I looked at hima man Id lived with for twenty-three years, in a flat inherited from his parentsnever felt quite mine. The tall ceilings, the chosen furniture, the rooms Id never redesignedalthough I could always see their potential. Im a designer, after all.
Your mother didnt fill my head, I said evenly. She just told me the truth.
What truth? Shes old and loves a drama.
That you like plain food. That youve a queasy gut. That all your life, porridge and mash have been your real favourite.
Silence. A pause, barely a second.
Nonsense, he muttered.
You polished that plate off, no complaint, a fortnight ago.
I was hungry!
DavidJust stop, please. Pause for a second.
He stared at me.
Im not here to fight. I want an honest talk. Are you ready? To try living differently? Not as we did the last decade?
Something flashed across his face, fleeting but real.
Differently how?
As equals. You work, I work. Sometimes a fancy meal, sometimes just a fry-up, and no one gets put down for it. We both speak honestly. No games.
Long silence.
I didnt belittle you, he said at last, very quietly. Just told the truth. Thats what I do. Im honest.
David.
What?
You were the honest man pretending not to like porridge while I wasted days and pounds on truffles.
Silence.
It wasnt honest, I said. Not angry, just a fact.
He left, shut the bedroom door. No slamtoo childish for him. Just quietly shut.
I fried potatoes for myself, ate alone at the Formica kitchen table. Sat long after with my tea, listening to him pacing behind the closed door.
***
The next months passed like the slow thaw after frost. No great drama, no scenes as in the films, just day by day slipping away, losing our shape as a couple.
David tried various tactics.
At first, sulking. Several days of acting monumentally offended, waiting for me to make up. I didnt. Cooked cheap food; looked after the flat; went to work; came home.
Then a tenderness. Brought home out-of-season tulips one November evening, obviously from the Tube station. Said hed missed me, wanted to go out. So we wentI agreed to dinner. He was attentive, asked about my job, laughed easily. It was nice. For a moment, I thought: maybe a change at last.
But the next day, he nonchalantly asked why I hadnt laid on something special for his mates visit over the weekend, out of habit not even noticing.
Ill do a pasta and salad, I replied.
Pasta?
Yes. Pasta.
Seriously?
Completely.
I saw that look again. He hadnt realised that I now recognised it.
Then came the argumentsreal ones, with raised voices, pacing, lists of everything hed ever done for me: flat, money, letting me play at cookery. Like investments, expecting a return.
You invested, thats clear, I replied calmly during one of those rows. Im not a business, David. Im a person. Investing in people works differently.
He didnt get it. Or didnt want to.
Sylvia called once a week, never pushy, short and warm. Sometimes just Hang in there, or Youre doing brilliantly. Once, she said:
Hes upset with me, isnt he?
A bit, I answered.
Let him be. But remember: Im on your side. First time in my life, Im on somebodys side. Never had that before.
I understood.
In December, Vera put me in charge of my own projecta small flat in Hampstead, a young family. Concept through to delivery. I didnt sleep a couple of nights, not for lack of know-how, but for fear Id forgotten how to do it well.
Turned outI hadnt forgotten.
The clienta thirty-year-old womanwalked into her finished home, stood in the doorway, silent for half a minute, then turned to me:
Youre a magician, she said.
I remembered what that feeling was called.
***
By February, I knew David and I wouldnt make it. Not because I didnt want to. I tried, I talked, I didnt run to a friends spare room or phone solicitorsthough articles about toxic marriages kept popping up online. I stayed, tried to build something new.
But he didnt want new.
He wanted back the old me, the one watching him from beside the hob, waiting for judgement. Not a wife, reallymore a mirror to make himself look important.
How do you know when your husband is a manipulator? When you see he wants not your happiness, or success, or joy, but your anxious anticipation of his approval. When, without your deference, he doesnt know who he is.
David wasnt a terrible man in many ways. Didnt drink. Didnt hit. Provided, as far as I ever knew, didnt cheat. Maybe loved me, after his fashion.
But living with him became impossiblenot because of daily pain, but because, drop by drop, you lose your shape. Forget who you were.
I filed for divorce that March.
He was in denial at first, then pleaded, then raged, then sobered. Sylvia went to see him; I dont know what she said but after that, he simply deflated. Not resigned, just became distanta stranger.
The flat had always been his. I moved in with my friend Sophie for three months until I found my own placea small two-bed flat in Islington with a view over an old cobbled street, a bit worn, but alive, genuine.
Renovated it myselfa bit of paint, new fixtures, each detail chosen with delight. Turns out, Id known what I wanted all along. Just never asked myself.
***
A year has passed.
Now its April. Im fifty-three. From my kitchen window in Islington, I see blossom on the little trees along the streetdont even know what kind, but every morning I watch while brewing coffee.
Coffee from a simple pot, decent beans, no fancy rituals.
Vera made me a full partner of her little firm in January. Four ongoing projectsI lead two. I sleep well again, waking up sometimes with ideas about light and lines, but in a good way: my brain working, not anxiety.
Sylvia still calls every week. I visited her recently, brought a cake. We chatted for hours, about everything and nothing. She spoke about her husband, her years of silence. I thought about generational woundshow we inherit sadness unless someone stops and says: no more.
Sylvia couldnt stop it for herself. But she helped me do it. Thats not nothing.
David lives in the old flat. Sometimes, rarely, we message about paperwork. I hear from mutual friends hes started attending cookery lessons now. Maybe he has. Maybe people really change, but only when no ones left to manage.
I seldom think about him. Sometimes, in a fancy deli, I see black truffles in a glass jar and stand for a second, feeling not quite sadness and not quite amusementsomething complicated. Nearly ten years of my life cant vanish that easily.
But I try not to get stuck.
I met Andrew last September, first as a clienthe wanted his flat refreshed after his wife died of cancer years before. Still hung her photos on the wall, but wanted more light, more air.
I understood exactly.
Hes fifty-four, an engineerbuilds bridges for a living. I marvelled a bit: he designs bridges, I design spaces. Theres something in that.
Hes calmnot quiet, just at ease. Looks you in the eye, really listens, laughs when things are funny. No need to show off.
On the second site visit, he asked if Id like to go for a coffee. We didthen a walk, more coffee, then a film. Some French movie, not half-bad, and he laughed quietly and I remembered how pleasant it was to be beside someone who was simply alive.
Weve been seeing each other months now. No hurry. We both know theres no need to rush.
Friday evenings, he comes by.
***
Today is Friday.
I got home at six, unpacked shoppingchicken thighs, potatoes, onions, carrots, fresh parsley, sour cream.
Chicken with veg, baked in the ovensomething homely, not fancy. Layers of potato, chicken, onion, carrot, a topping of sour cream, an hour in the oven. Sprinkle parsley.
I make this when I want comfort, just real food.
While it baked, I changed clothes, inhaling the comforting aromaonion, butter, chicken, a whiff of garlic. The plainest smell. Reminds me of childhood, my grans kitchen. I probably hadnt thought of it in twenty years.
Doorbell at seven.
I opened the door. Andrew stepped inside, bag in handI saw a bottle of wine peeping out.
Hi, he said.
Hi. Smell anything familiar?
He sniffed.
Something good. Potatoes?
Chicken bake. Needs another hour.
Lovely, he smiled, hanging up his coat. Brought some wine. And he rummagedthese.
He pulled out a basic box of milk chocolates with nutsnothing fancy, just ordinary supermarket fare.
You like those with nuts, dont you?
I picked up the box.
How did you know?
You mentioned itway back in September, passing the bakery.
I stood there, overwhelmed.
You remember things, I said.
I try, he answered, simply.
We moved to the kitchen. I opened the oven, checked the bakea little longer. He opened the wine, poured us a glass. Sat on a stool by the table.
Hows your project? The one on Charing Cross?
Challenging client, I admitted. Wants the world, for a fiver.
Happens.
It does, I said. But something good will come. The ceilings are five metres highwould be criminal not to use that.
He nodded, watched me stirring at the stove.
Jane, he said.
Hmm?
Are you happy? Right this moment? Not in generaljust now.
I looked at him. He was asking properly, not playing.
Right now? I listened to myself. Yes. Right now, yes.
Good, he replied, and said nothing more.
The bake was ready. I let it stand, chopped parsley, sprinkled it over. Served at the table. No candles, just the kitchen light.
Looks lovely, Andrew said.
Its just a bake.
Looks and smells wonderful. Do you ever cook anything badly?
I laughed.
Never tested it.
We ate. He asked for seconds, simply held out his plate. I heaped more. We chattedabout his work, a trip to see his daughter in Glasgow, my summer plansanywhere, just a change. He suggested Scotland or maybe Finland. Somewhere easy.
Later tea. Cheap chocolates from the blue box.
Out the window, London in Aprilalive, the scent of damp pavement and cherry blossom on the air. White blossoms swayed in the breeze down the street.
I caught myself thinking: this is it. Not an event. Not a festive meal. Just an evening, a living, gentle person across the table, food that smells of childhood, no moment waiting for approval.
Sometimes I recall those years. The truffles, the lobster bisque, the split sauces. How much effort for one word: rich. I feel sad sometimesfor the years lost, the woman I was, so long not seeing. But self-pity’s a luxury I dont allow anymore.
I read once: womens self-esteemlike it was fixed, like eye colour. But no, its something you build. Sometimes it crumbles, sometimes it starts again at fifty-two at Veras office, learning computer programs with frustration, but you dont runyou stay. And gradually, you begin seeing again.
Boundariesnow thats a trendy word. Im not big on trendy words; but what it stands for, I get now. Simply knowing: this is me. This is mine.
Simple recipe for happiness, I suppose, really is simpledo what youre good at, be among those who see you, cook what you like, wait for no others word.
What are you thinking about? Andrew asked.
I studied his kindly face, his cup of tea.
The chicken bake, I told him.
He laughed.
Good thing to think about.
The best, I agreed. More tea?
Love some, thanks.
I poured his cup, poured mine, set the pot down, glanced at the white tree outside.
Andrew.
Yes?
Youll never tell me if I over-salt, will you?
He looked up.
Youve not over-salted. It was fine.
And if I ever do?
He considered it.
Ill say, next time, just a touch less, and eat it anyway.
I nodded.
Good answer.
I try, he smiled, reaching for the last chocolate. Is it all right if I take this one?
Go ahead.
The white blossom trembled outside, London hummed softlyuncaring of dinner plates or sauces, truffles or porridge, the years gone or ahead. The city lived. And so did I. And the tea was hot; the scent of the oven lingered in my little kitchen, and a plant Id bought last week stood, just for the pleasure of the colour, on the sill.
I liked the colour.
So I bought it.
Thats how I live now.
Lesson learned: Sometimes simplicity is everything. And the right to shape your own space, big or small, is the beginning of everything good.
