Kitchen Lessons
First story. The bluerimmed mug
When Mum calls and says I need to visit Grandma Nora, Katies mind instantly runs through her todo list: the report, the deadline, the client call. She opens her mouth to say she cant this week, but Mums short reply cuts her off:
Shes mixing up her pills. Im worried. Could you pop round?
Katie drives out on Sunday. The lift smells of cleaning fluid and someone elses perfume. In the hallway a neighbours pram and a shoe box sit where they always do. Nora doesnt answer the door right away; the chain clinks, then the door cracks open.
Who is it?
Its me, Katie.
Nora pushes the chain aside and, seeing her granddaughter, straightens her shoulders as if remembering how to stand tall.
Come in, love. Ive just put the kettle on.
Katie steps into a tiny, familiar kitchen: a table covered in lemonprinted cling film, stools, an old fridge plastered with magnets from towns Noras never visited, sent by her grandchildren. A pot of soup simmers on the enamelled stove, and beside it sits a ceramic mug with a blue rim that Katie has known since she was a child. Back then it seemed enormous; now its just ordinary.
Why havent you called? Nora asks while filling the kettle. I thought youd disappeared into your London.
Im still in London, Mum Katie smiles. Just a different part of it.
Ah, right, right Nora waves a hand. Everyones in a different part. Im just here in this one.
She places the mug in front of Katie and pours herself a glass of water.
Mum says youre mixing up your medication Katie begins cautiously.
Your mum spots everything, doesnt she? Nora grumbles. Miss one dose and its a panic. Im not mixing them up, Im thinking.
About what?
About what I need and what I dont.
Katie frowns. She arrived with a clear mission: check the pill boxes, the schedule, maybe ring the doctor. Now Noras Im thinking throws a wrench in the plan.
The doctor prescribed them, remember? Katie reminds her.
He did, yes. But the doctor isnt living inside me Nora answers calmly. He sees me ten minutes a day, and Ive got seventyeight years on my own.
A familiar irritation bubbles up in Katie; it feels as if older people deliberately complicate everything.
But you know you cant go without them
I know, Nora interrupts. Sit down. Ill ladle you some borscht.
Katie sighs, then takes a seat. Nora lifts the pot lid, scoops out a generous portion. Steam hits her face, the scent of beetroot and bay leaf whisks her back to childhood afternoons spent here after school.
Do you think Im foolish? Nora asks, setting the bowl down. Or maybe Im no longer thinking clearly?
I dont think that, Katie replies automatically, then catches herself realizing she was indeed thinking that way.
Heres what Ill say, Nora continues. At my age happiness is being able to choose, even if its only small things. I decide whether to take a pill or not. I decide whether I want borscht or porridge.
But if you dont take them youll feel worse, Katie insists.
Ill feel worse, yes. But that will be my choice, not anyone elses.
Katie eats silently. The borscht tastes as good as ever. She thinks of the past weeks, where every minute was booked with chats, calls, emails. Shes always told herself that juggling is what being young means. Yet Noras words about choosing ring true.
Do you think happiness is the freedom to choose? she asks.
What else would it be? Nora sits opposite her, glass in hand. How do you live? Do you decide when to rest, who to see?
Katie smirks.
Not really. Projects run me.
Exactly. I have no projects. I just get up, look out the window. My legs dont ache today thats happiness. I can walk to the shop another. I can make soup myself instead of waiting for someone a third. It adds up.
She speaks plainly, as if reciting a grocery list.
And the pills? Katie returns stubbornly to the subject.
Pills arent about happiness, Nora answers. Theyre about time. You can stretch it, you can shorten it. I dont want to live longer if Im just lying waiting for someone to lift my foot. Sorry for the detail.
Katie grimaces, then nods.
I want to live long enough to pour my own tea into this mug, Nora says, pointing at the bluerimmed ceramic. Thats my secret.
Katie looks at the mug. Her hand automatically reaches for the handle, feeling the warm porcelain. Suddenly she realises that for Nora the mug symbolizes her independence.
Lets still organise the pills by day, Katie suggests gently. Youll decide whether to take them, but lets keep them in order. Okay?
Nora studies her closely. In her eyes theres something new, as if for the first time in years she sees her granddaughter not as a child but as an adult.
Alright, Nora agrees. Lets do it.
Together they open the blister pack. Katie reads the instructions, sorting the tablets into the tiny compartments. Nora sits nearby, asking occasional questions. Their conversation drifts to the neighbour in flat four, the rising price of bread, a new TV series.
When everything is arranged, Katie snaps the box shut and puts it on the shelf.
Here she says. Morning here, evening there. But you decide.
I decide, Nora repeats, then unexpectedly pats Katies wrist. And you, Katie, make sure you have something of your own too, not just reports.
On the tube ride home Katie pulls out her phone to check email. Her fingers hover over the icon, then she stops. Instead she opens a notes app and writes: No laptop in bed tonight. One evening a week no work. At first it feels silly, then a little frightening.
She remembers Noras calm voice, her hand on the mug, and realises her own secret to happiness might start with a tiny choice, like not answering emails after ten at night.
Second story. The clinic queue
Simon sits on a hard plastic chair, scrolling through the news feed. Headlines about mortgages, the latest smartphones, and someones messy divorce flash across the screen. The clinic corridor smells of disinfectant and medicine. People sit with appointment cards, some wearing masks, some not.
Next to him settles an elderly lady in a beige coat and a knitted hat. She leans heavily on a cane and takes a breath.
Whats your number? she asks, leaning toward Simon.
Twentythird.
Mines twentysecond. So Im ahead of you.
She smiles as if a secret bond has formed. Simon nods and returns to his phone.
Are you here to see the GP? she persists.
Yes.
Young man, already at the GP. Thats proper. Men here only come when theyre really down.
Simon sighs. His back has been hurting, and he finally decides to see a doctor. At work his colleagues keep brushing it off: Back pain at thirtytwo, whats next? But twelvehour computer days start to take their toll.
And you, who are you seeing? he asks politely.
The cardiologist, she replies. Im practically a regular.
She chuckles softly.
Im TamaraPeterson.
Simon.
Pleasure, Simon. What do you do?
I work in an office, analytics, numbers.
Ah, numbers, she sighs. My late husband was a numbers man too. An accountant. He counted everything money, calories, steps.
She pauses a heartbeat, listening to herself.
He never counted happiness.
Simon looks up from his phone. Something in her words strikes a chord.
How do you count happiness? he asks.
He always said, When I retire, well live properly. When the mortgage is paid, well go to the sea. Always later. Then one day, boom, heart attack.
She says it plainly, without melodrama, as if recounting someone elses story.
Sorry, Simon says quietly.
No need to apologise. Life. I used to sit at home, watching his ledgers. Every penny noted, every step logged.
She continues, eyes distant.
He had a little enamel pot he used for porridge. He called it his personal pot.
She smiles at the memory.
I realised his happiness lived in those small things his porridge, his morning radio, his glass mug. He was always waiting for something big.
A door swings open as a nurse calls the next name. The queue shifts.
Are you waiting for something too? Tamara suddenly asks Simon.
Simon shrugs.
Well I wait for a raise, for the mortgage to be cleared, for more free time.
And you have none of that now?
Practically none.
She shakes her head.
I decided to stop putting things off. My pensions modest, but every Saturday I walk in the park, buy a cabbage pasty and sit on a bench. People laugh, Whats so special about a pasty? I think, Thats my joy today.
Simon envisions her on the bench, the pasty in hand. In his world joy is measured by overseas holidays, a new car, a bonus. Yet he knows he still has to live long enough to reach those.
Arent you scared youll run out of money? he asks.
Of course, she admits. But Im more scared of living a life where I never allow myself tiny pleasures. Im not talking about frivolous creditcard buys; Im talking about buying a pasty today instead of waiting for enough.
She emphasises the word enough.
My husband and I always had little. We saved everything. And what? He left, Im left with his ledgers, neat rows of numbers, no happiness in them.
Simon feels a tightness in his chest. He remembers turning down a night out with friends a week ago because work. He also recalls postponing a seaside trip for the third year, always finding a more sensible expense.
What if you regret it later? he asks.
Regret the pasty? she laughs. Then Ill regret being hungry. Seriously, I only regret not speaking up to my husband when I should have: Enough counting, lets have fun.
She falls silent, staring off.
Thats why I tell everyone, she continues, dont wait for life to happen. Live a bit each day.
A nurse calls out, Cardiology, number twentysecond.
Thats me, Tamara says, gripping her cane. Ill see how many pasties Ive earned today.
She winks at Simon and heads to the exam room.
Simon remains seated, his phone dark on his knees. He remembers its Friday and a new film has just opened. The automatic voice in his head says, Finish the report first. Yet Tamaras pasty reminder lingers.
He opens a ticketbooking app, selects an evening show, then dials a friend.
Fancy the cinema tonight? he says. Yeah, the report can wait until tomorrow.
He surprises himself with the decision. A lightness settles in, as if hes taken a small step away from an endless later.
Third story. Summer in the village
Annie stands at the stove in her grandmothers cottage, stirring a pot of jam. The summer heat presses against the walls, flies lazily buzz by the open window. Fresh cucumbers lie on the windowsill, just plucked from the garden. A clock ticks in the next room.
Will it burn? asks Grandma Gail from behind the table where shes peeling potatoes.
No, Im watching, Annie replies.
Shes stayed with her grandmother for a week, escaping the city and the recent divorce. Mum suggested a change of scenery would help. At first Annie resisted, then shrugged it off.
Keep stirring, dont get distracted, Gail reminds her. Lifes like jam; stop watching it and it slips away.
Annie huffs.
Ive already lost everything, she mutters.
What do you mean? Gail asks, narrowing her eyes.
Just I and Ilya split up.
Gail pauses her potato work.
Split up? Completely?
Completely.
Why didnt you say anything?
What was there to say? Annie shrugs. It just didnt work.
Gail shakes her head.
Times were different. People endured.
Annie tenses, expecting the usual lecture about sticking it out for the kids except they have none.
We endured because we had no choice, Gail says quietly. Now you have a choice.
She falls silent, then sighs.
You know, I once left my own husband.
Annie looks up, surprised.
Where did you go?
I left him for a week.
Really?
Im still a person, you know? He started drinking heavily, shouting, breaking dishes. I packed a bag, took your mothers hand, and went to my sisters in the next village.
Annie hadnt heard that story before.
He eventually came back, standing at the window, shouting, Gail, come back. I told him, Ill return if you quit drinking. He laughed. I didnt come back for a week.
She wipes her hands on her apron.
And then?
He sobered a bit, sat on the garden bench and said, I dont know if I can quit, but Ill try. Help me, dont scold. I went back.
Did he quit?
Not completely, she admits. He drinks less now. Weve lived forty years together. No regrets.
She gazes out the window at the garden.
Why are you telling me this? Annie asks.
To show that happiness isnt about tolerating everything or running at the first sign of trouble. Its about knowing your limits, what youll accept and what you wont.
Annie picks up the knife again, continuing to peel potatoes.
Why did you leave? Gail asks.
We argued all the time. He wanted children, I wasnt sure. I was scared, work was overwhelming, money was tight. He kept saying everything would work out. I didnt believe him. In the end we became strangers.
Did you love him?
Annie pauses, thinking.
I dont know. Probably not anymore.
See, I left my husband while I still loved him, because he was willing to change. If theres no love, whats the point of staying?
Annie feels a lump rise in her throat.
Everyone says I was too quick, she exhales. That I shouldve tried harder.
Did you try?
We went to a counsellor, talked a lot. I really tried. But every session ended with him sulking, me feeling guilty.
Gail nods.
Then listen to this: happiness is being able to pour yourself a soup in the evening and not fear someone storming in yelling. Everything else falls into place.
Annie smiles despite herself.
Thats very downtoearth, Grandma.
What else did you expect? Gail chuckles. A fairytale love? Thats nice, but youll live with a real person, not a movie hero.
The jam begins to bubble, Annie turns down the heat.
See, if you look away just a bit, it overflows. But if you keep an eye on it and adjust, both the jam and relationships stay in the pot.
She says this plainly, yet Annie feels a calm settle inside. No one is telling her to endure; shes simply being given permission to walk away if needed.
After lunch they wander into the garden. Gail points out which beds need watering, where the tomatoes grow, where the dill is. Annie listens, wondering if her own life could be tended like these plants: sow, harvest, let some things rest.
That evening, stretched on the old sofa, she opens a chat with her exhusband. His last message reads, If you change your mind, let me know. She looks at it, then blocks the conversation. Not out of hatred, but because she recognises her boundary has been crossed and theres no need to return.
A voice from the kitchen calls,
Annie, the teas getting cold!
Coming! she replies, rising and feeling oddly light. Not joy, not euphoria, just a quiet certainty that shes doing whats right for herself.
Fourth story. Birthday without a cake
Paul stands by the window, watching the courtyard. Children kick a ball, someone walks a dog. Behind him a cupboard door slams shut.
I still dont get why we bother with this, he says without turning.
Because youre turning seventy, Paul, answers Grandma Zoya, his downstairs neighbour. Its a milestone.
So what? he growls. Round, square does it matter?
Hes just retired, feeling tossed aside. At work they held a farewell tea, gave him a nice set of dishes, wished him enjoy your wellearned rest.He finally smiled, lifted the teacup, and whispered that perhaps a quiet afternoon could be his new kind of celebration.
