**Sunday, 12th November**
I watched my friend peel potatoes today, packing them tightly into large jars. It seemed odd—why would a woman living alone need so much food prepped in advance?
*”Why all this effort?”* I asked. *”Surely you don’t need a full pot of stew just for yourself?”*
She sighed, wiping her brow. *”It’s for my son. I can’t bear the thought of him eating rubbish.”* Her fingers worked swiftly, nudging another spud into the jar. *”His wife can’t even brew a proper cuppa, let alone cook. It’s always takeaways or frozen meals—over-salted, greasy, barely edible. He’s not made of steel, you know. His stomach won’t last forever.”*
She had a point. A homemade salad, a jar of stew, potatoes ready to roast—at least this way, he’d have something decent. *”When he comes home from work, all he has to do is heat it up,”* she added. *”Quick. Simple. Tastes like home.”*
Now, let me tell my own side—perhaps you’ll understand better.
I’m not one of those mothers-in-law who meddles. My son chose his wife, and she’s pleasant enough—polite, tidy. But she can’t cook. Worse, she won’t learn. *”We both work,”* she argues, *”so chores should be equal. We cook together.”* In theory, fair enough. In practice? Instant noodles, frozen pies, sauce from a jar.
Where’s the time gone? Everything’s a rush. Wolf down a meal, collapse into bed. What’s the hurry? Scrolling through Instagram? Binging Netflix? They don’t even have children yet. Why not slow down? Why not care for each other properly?
You might wonder—how do I know all this if I don’t interfere? Simple. My son visits more often now. Casually, he’ll ask, *”Mum, got anything to eat?”* At first, I thought it was nostalgia—missing my beef stew. Then I asked outright: *”Do you even eat proper meals at home?”*
He hesitated. Sometimes they cook, he admitted. Mostly, though, it’s Deliveroo. *”Fast, expensive, and bland.”* I’d been round theirs for dinner twice—both times, the table was laid beautifully. Only later did I learn: it was all restaurant deliveries, plated nicely. A performance, not a meal.
It near broke my heart. He’s no prince, mind—just a working man, putting in ten-hour days, coming home to a sad sausage roll. And her—what sort of mother would she be, feeding a child chicken nuggets from a cardboard box?
No, I won’t force lessons on her. If her own mother didn’t teach her, what chance do I have? I’d only sour things.
So, I do what I can. Peel potatoes. Slow-cook stew. Pack it all into jars. He takes it home—eats properly. I’ve the time, after all. Better than wasting evenings on telly. It’s not heroic, just… motherly.
Some might say I’m coddling him. That he’s a grown man. But when he turns up exhausted, hungry—what else can I do? I’m his mum. And I’ll never understand these modern women. Cooking isn’t slavery—it’s love. Simple. Warm. Uncomplicated.
Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe the world’s moved on, where a takeaway app matters more than a roasting tin. But I can’t keep up. Not when my boy’s hungry.
