“My daughter-in-law can’t even make a proper cup of tea. And her cooking? Absolute nightmare,” my friend sighed as she peeled potatoes and stacked them in jars.
“Why are you peeling so many potatoes and stuffing them into those big jars? And why make an entire pot of stew if you live alone?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s for my son. I feel sorry for him,” she huffed, wiping her forehead. “His wife can’t even brew tea right, let alone cook a decent meal. It’s all frozen junk from the microwave or takeaway—greasy, oversalted, processed stuff. He’s not made of steel, you know. His stomach won’t last forever. So here I am—chopping salad, making stew, packing potatoes in jars. At least he’ll have something homemade for once. He gets back from work, opens a jar, and boom—dinner’s ready. Or he can just toss the meat and spuds in a pan. Quick, tasty, proper food.”
Now, let me tell this story from my own perspective. Maybe then you’ll understand better.
I’m not one of those interfering mother-in-laws who poke their nose into every little thing. I stay out of it. My son chose his wife—she’s polite, seems nice enough. But… she can’t cook. And worse, she doesn’t *want* to learn. Her attitude? “We both work, so chores should be equal—we cook together.” In theory, fair enough. But in reality? Instant noodles, frozen sausage rolls, ready-made sauces from a jar.
Always rushing somewhere. Everything’s frantic—wolf down a meal, collapse into bed. Where’s the fire? Scrolling through Instagram? TikTok? They don’t even have kids! Why not take the time to make a proper dinner? Why not look after each other?
You might ask—how do I know all this if I don’t interfere? Simple. My son’s started dropping by more often. Always swinging by, asking, “Mum, got anything to eat?” At first, I thought he just fancied my stew. But then I asked him straight: “Do you even eat properly at home?”
And he told me. Yeah, they “cook.” Sometimes. But mostly it’s takeaways—pricey, bland, and rubbish. I’ve been round theirs a few times, and the food seemed nice… but turns out it was all from Deliveroo. Heat it up, plate it—voilà, dinner’s served.
I nearly cried. He’s no prince, mind you. Just a bloke working ten-hour days, coming home to a sad sausage roll. And her? If she can’t be bothered now, what happens if they have kids? Will she feed them burgers from a box?
Look, I’m not about to barge in and play cooking instructor—too late for that. If her own mum didn’t teach her, I won’t bother. I’d just cause a row. No thanks.
So here’s what I do instead—peel potatoes, slow-cook beef, pack it all in jars. He takes it home, eats properly. I’ve got the time after work. Rather do that than binge some telly. It’s not heroic—just care. Motherly care.
Maybe you’ll say I shouldn’t bother, that he’s a grown man. But when he turns up on my doorstep, starving and exhausted? My heart won’t let me say no. I’m his mum. And I just don’t get these modern women. Cooking isn’t some chore, some prison sentence—it’s love. Simple, warm, everyday love.
Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe I don’t fit in this world where a takeaway app feels closer than a saucepan.
