My daughter-in-law can’t even brew a proper cup of tea. And her cooking? A downright disaster.
I watched my friend peeling potatoes and stuffing them into a three-litre jar. “Why on earth are you peeling so many and cramming them in there?” I asked. “And why make an entire pot of stew if you live alone?”
She sighed, wiping her brow. “It’s for my son. I feel sorry for him. His wife couldn’t make a decent meal if her life depended on it. Half the time it’s microwaved ready meals or takeaway—always greasy, oversalted, or straight from the freezer. He’s not made of iron, you know. His stomach won’t last forever. So I’ve made him a salad, a proper beef stew, and jarred these potatoes. At least this way, when he comes home from work, he can open a jar and have a proper meal. Or fry the potatoes with a bit of meat—quick, simple, and homemade.”
Now, let me tell this story from my own perspective. Perhaps then you’ll understand.
I’m not the sort of mother-in-law who meddles in every little detail of her children’s lives. I don’t interfere. My son chose his wife, and she’s decent enough—polite, presentable. But she can’t cook. Worse still, she has no interest in learning. Her stance is this: “We both work, so housework should be split evenly. We cook together.” In theory, fair enough. But in practice? Instant noodles, fried dumplings, and powdered sauces.
Always in a rush, always on the go. Hurry to eat, hurry to sleep. What’s the rush for? Instagram? TikTok? They don’t even have children yet. Why not take the time to cook a proper dinner? Why not care for each other properly?
How do I know all this if I don’t interfere? Well, my son started visiting more often. Dropping by, casual as you please, asking, “Mum, got anything to eat?” At first, I thought he just fancied my stew. But then I asked him outright, “Do you even eat properly at home?”
And he told me. Yes, they cook—sometimes. But mostly it’s takeaway. Quick, tasteless, expensive. I’d been to theirs a few times—everything seemed lovely on the table. But turns out, it was all restaurant delivery. Heat it up, plate it, and there’s dinner.
I nearly wept. My boy’s no prince, mind you. Just a man working ten-hour days, coming home to a sausage roll. And her? If she’s to be a mother one day, will she feed their child burgers from a box?
No, I won’t force myself on them. I won’t march in and teach her to cook—it’s too late. If her own mother didn’t bother, what hope have I? I’d only sour things. What good would that do?
So I do what I can. Peel potatoes, simmer beef, pack it all in jars. He takes it home and eats proper food. I’ve got the time after work—what else would I do? Watch telly? Might as well make stew. It’s no great sacrifice, no hardship. Just care. A mother’s care.
Maybe you’ll say I shouldn’t coddle him. That he’s a grown man. But when he stands at my door, tired and hungry, my heart won’t let me turn him away. I’m his mother. And I’ll never understand these modern women. Cooking isn’t drudgery or servitude. It’s love—plain, warm, everyday.
But then, perhaps I’m just getting old. Left behind in a world where takeaway is closer at hand than a stew pot.
