The Culinary Wonder of Emily
When Liam and I stepped into Emily’s flat, the scent that wrapped around me nearly made me forget why we’d even come. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly roasted meat, warm pastries, and spices that seemed to waltz through the room. I paused in the doorway, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply—it smelled like comfort, celebration, and something utterly magical. And when I finally looked at the table, I was speechless. The dishes laid out could have been displayed in a museum of culinary art. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to admire them or grab a plate straight away.
Emily, my oldest friend, had always been gifted in the kitchen, but this time, she’d outdone herself. Liam and I had come over for dinner—she’d invited us “just because,” no special occasion, just an evening to catch up. I’ll admit, I’d expected something simple—maybe a salad, a roast chicken, tea and biscuits. But what greeted us was a proper feast. The table groaned under the weight of it all: a golden-crusted pork loin with a herb crust, rosemary-roasted potatoes, vegetables arranged like a still-life painting, and a pie with a bronzed top that smelled of apples and cinnamon. And the sauces—three of them, in delicate little pots, each a masterpiece in its own right.
“Em, are you opening a restaurant or something?” I blurted, unable to tear my eyes away. Emily just laughed and waved me off. “Oh, Charlotte, I just fancied treating you. Sit down—let’s dig in!” Liam, usually a man of few words, was already reaching for his fork, but I nudged him. “Hold on, I need a picture first—this has to go on Instagram!” Emily rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased. That was just like her—cooking with all her heart, then acting like it was nothing.
We settled around the table, and the feast began. The meat melted on my tongue, infused with garlic and something else I couldn’t quite place. “Em, what’s the magic here?” I asked, and she grinned. “Secret ingredient—love!” I laughed, but part of me believed it. How else could even a simple tomato and cucumber salad taste like a work of art? Liam, usually silent over meals, suddenly said, “Emily, if you cook like this every night, I’m moving in.” We all burst out laughing, but I noticed him eyeing the dishes for seconds.
Between bites, Emily shared how she’d prepared each dish. She’d spent the entire day in the kitchen, and some recipes had been passed down from her gran. “This pie,” she said, “Gran made it for every celebration. I just added a bit of vanilla and extra cinnamon.” I listened, marvelling at her patience. Me? I can barely last an hour cooking. My signature dish is cheese on toast—and that’s if the cheese is pre-grated. But this—this was a symphony of flavours, all made with such care it made me want to hug her.
What struck me most, though, was the warmth Emily had created. It wasn’t just the food—her whole home seemed to glow with it. A small vase of flowers sat on the table, candles cast a cosy half-light, and soft jazz hummed from the speakers. I realised I hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. Even Liam, who usually disappears into his phone after meals, sat smiling, sharing stories from his uni days. Emily had turned an ordinary evening into something extraordinary.
Somewhere between my second slice of pie and a cup of chamomile tea, I asked, “Em, how do you find the time? Work, life, and then pulling off dinners like this?” She paused, then said, “You know, Charlotte, cooking’s like meditation for me. I put on music, chop veg, knead dough—and everything else fades. And watching you enjoy it? That makes it all worth it.” I looked at her and wished I had just a fraction of her talent. Maybe then I’d bake pies instead of dialling for takeaway.
As we gathered our coats 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. “Charlotte, don’t argue—I made it for you.” Stepping outside, Liam and I paused under the streetlamp, and it hit me—this evening hadn’t just been about food. It was about friendship, warmth, the joy of sharing. Emily had reminded me how important it is to slow down, gather together, and savour the moment.
Now I’m plotting to invite her over in return. Though, honestly, I’m panicking—what on earth could I serve? My cheese on toast won’t exactly measure up. Maybe I’ll order Indian and pretend I tried? Joking. Maybe I’ll ask for a recipe or two and give it a proper go. And if it flops? I’ll just say, “Em, you’re the queen of the kitchen, and I’m still learning.” And I know she’ll laugh and say it’s the company that counts. That’s just who she is.
