“My daughter-in-law can’t even brew a proper cup of tea. And her cooking? An absolute disaster,” sighed the mother-in-law as she peeled potatoes and stacked them in jars.
“Why on earth are you peeling so many potatoes and cramming them into a three-litre jar? And what do you need a whole pot of beef stew for when you live alone?” I asked my friend.
“It’s all for my son. I feel sorry for him,” she replied, wiping her brow wearily. “His wife can’t even make a decent cuppa, let alone a proper meal. It’s either frozen rubbish microwaved to death or takeaway. Always something greasy, over-salted, or processed. He’s not made of iron, you know. His stomach won’t last forever. So here I am—making salad, cooking stew, jarring potatoes. Let him have at least one proper, home-cooked meal. He comes back from work, opens a jar—soup’s ready. Or tosses 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 interfering mothers-in-law who meddle in every little detail of their children’s lives.** I keep my distance. My son chose his wife himself. She seems nice enough, polite. But… she can’t cook. Worse still, she has no desire to learn. Her attitude is: *We both work, so chores should be split equally—including cooking.* In theory, fair enough. But in practice? Instant noodles, fried frozen dumplings, and powdered sauces.
Everything’s a mad rush. Always on the go. Gulp down a meal, collapse into bed. What’s the hurry? Off to scroll through Instagram or TikTok? They don’t even have children yet. Why not slow down and make a proper dinner? Why not take care of each other?
You might wonder—how do I know all this if I don’t interfere? Well, here’s how. My son’s been dropping by more often. Always popping in, asking for food. Casually, like it’s nothing: *”Mum, got anything to eat?”* At first, I thought he just fancied my beef stew. Then I asked him straight: *”Do you even eat proper meals at home?”*
And he told me. Yes, they *do* cook. Sometimes. But mostly, it’s takeaway. Fast, bland, and expensive. I’ve been to theirs a few times—the food was lovely, nicely presented… but as it turned out, all from restaurants. Heat it up, slap it on a plate—there’s dinner.
I nearly cried. He’s no prince, mind you. A working man, putting in ten-hour days, coming home to a sausage roll. And her? If she ever becomes a mother, is this how she’ll feed her child? Drive-through burgers out of a box?
No, I won’t force myself on them. I won’t march in and give her cooking lessons—it’s too late. If her own mother didn’t teach her, I’ve no hope. I’d just sour things. What’s the point?
So I do things differently. Peel potatoes, simmer meat, pack them into jars. He takes it home—eats properly. I’ve got the time after work. What else would I do? Watch telly? I’d rather make a stew. It’s no grand sacrifice, no hardship. Just care. A 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 let me turn him away. I’m his mother. And I’ll never understand these modern women. Cooking isn’t slavery, isn’t drudgery. It’s love. Simple, warm, everyday love.
But then, perhaps I’m just getting old. Failing to keep up with this new world where Deliveroo is closer than a saucepan.
