“My daughter-in-law can’t even make a proper cup of tea, and her cooking is an absolute nightmare,” muttered my mother-in-law as she peeled potatoes and packed them into jars.
“Why on earth are you peeling so many potatoes and stuffing them into a three-litre jar? And why do you need an entire pot of stew if you live alone?” I asked my friend.
“It’s for my son. I feel sorry for him,” she sighed, wiping her brow. “His wife can’t brew tea properly, let alone cook a decent meal. It’s all frozen ready meals, microwaved slop, or takeaway. Always something greasy, over-salted, processed… He’s not made of iron, you know. His stomach won’t last forever. So here I am—chopped salad, made stew, jarred potatoes. At least he’ll have something homemade for once. He’ll come home from work, open the jar—soup’s ready. Or he can throw the meat and potatoes in a pan—quick and tasty.”
Now, let me tell this story from my own perspective. Maybe then you’ll understand.
I’m not one of those meddling mother-in-laws who poke into every crack of their children’s marriage. I stay out of it. My son chose his wife. She seems pleasant enough, polite. But… she can’t cook. Worse, she doesn’t want to learn. Her stance is: we both work, so chores should be split evenly. Cooking included. In theory—fine. In practice? Instant noodles, fried dumplings, packet sauces.
Always rushing. Always on the go. Eat fast, sleep fast. Where are they even hurrying to? Scrolling through Instagram? Watching TikTok? They don’t even have kids. Why not make a proper dinner? Why not take care of each other?
You might ask—how do I know all this if I don’t interfere? Well, here’s how. My son’s started dropping by more often. Just casually asks, “Mum, got anything to eat?” At first, I thought he just missed my stew. Then I asked him outright: “Do you even eat at home?”
And he told me. Yes, they *cook*—sometimes. Mostly, though, it’s takeaways. Quick, tasteless, expensive. I’ve been to theirs a few times—everything was lovely, nicely presented… but turns out, it was all restaurant delivery. Heat it up, plate it—that’s dinner sorted.
I nearly cried. He’s no prince, mind you. Just a man working ten-hour days, coming home to a sausage roll. And *her*? As a future mother, is she going to feed their child burgers from a cardboard box?
No, I won’t force my way in. I won’t teach her to cook—it’s too late. If her own mother didn’t bother, I won’t try. I’d only ruin things. What’s the point?
So I do it this way. Peel potatoes, slow-cook beef, pack them in jars. He takes them home—he eats. I’ve got the time after work. What else am I supposed to do, binge-watch Netflix? Might as well make stew. It’s no grand gesture, no martyrdom. Just care. Mother’s care.
Maybe you’ll say I shouldn’t help like this. That he’s a grown man. But when he stands on my doorstep, tired and hungry—my heart won’t take it. I’m his mother. And I don’t understand these modern women. Cooking isn’t humiliation, isn’t drudgery. It’s love. Simple, warm, everyday.
I suppose I’m just getting old. Can’t keep up with this new world where Deliveroo is closer than a saucepan.
