Did you chop this salad yourself, or is it again from one of those ghastly plastic tubs, the kind you poison my son with? Margaret Turner pursed her lips, prodding a delicate vol-au-vent filled with cream cheese and smoked salmon as if it were something rather distasteful.
Eleanor took a slow breath, smoothing the pleat of her festive dress. She was turning thirty-five that day. A milestone birthday. The sort of day one wishes to feel like a queen, to receive well wishes and simply delight in life. Yet instead, she found herself standing in the middle of her own drawing room, laying out the table, feeling not a celebrant but a schoolgirl awaiting rebuke.
Margaret, its a delivery from that Italian restaurant the one with the proper chef. The ingredients are top quality, I assure you, Eleanor managed a smile. As you know, I work until eight most evenings. There simply isnt the time to cook for fifteen, not unless I give up sleep entirely.
Oh, work, yes, her mother-in-law rolled her eyes, addressing her sons portrait on the mantelpiece as though seeking silent support. We worked too, in my day. Factory by the morning, fields by noon, still managed to raise children. Yet for a husband to eat shop-bought food on a special day Its unnatural, my dear. Poor William, he looks so run-down these days. Just see the shadows under his eyes.
William the poor boy aged thirty-eight, weighing nearly sixteen stone with cheeks positively aglow breezed in just then, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
Mum, Ellie! The spread looks marvellous! Such aromas! Ellie, are those the aubergine rolls? Cant wait to try them!
Margaret shot her son a look of deep maternal concern but left it at that. The guests were due any minute. Eleanor sped to the kitchen to retrieve hot dishes, the coil of irritation winding ever tighter inside her. It hadnt started yesterday, or even the year before. The entire five years of marriage, her mother-in-law had waged a stealthy war for her sons stomach. Every weekend saw the handover of tupperware: homemade pies, jellied beef, cutlets, all delivered with a parting shot: A bit of proper food for you, or Ellies awfully busy, being such a modern businesswoman. Eleanor endured. She genuinely worked hard heading logistics at a major firm, earning a larger salary than William, and saw no shame in paying for a cleaner or food deliveries. It was, to her, simply paying for freedom: time to read, exercise, or just enjoy her husbands company.
Margaret, however, saw things quite differently. In her eyes, a woman unable or unwilling to roll out pastry and knead by hand was a defective article.
The bell chimed guests began to arrive. Laughter, the heady scent of perfume, and flowers filled the flat. Friends, colleagues, even Eleanors parents came bearing envelopes of crisp notes and spa vouchers. The mood thawed, and Eleanor began to relax, determined to ignore Margarets pinched disapproval.
When dessert rolled around, Margaret, who had sat all evening exuding wounded virtue, rose suddenly. She tapped her fork against the rim of a crystal glass to command attention.
Friends, she intoned, the formal voice reserved for parish committees and funerals I too wish to congratulate our birthday girl. Thirty-five: a significant age. By now, a woman ought to have wisdom, patience, and of course, the art of keeping a home.
She paused theatrically, rummaging in her voluminous shopping bag by the chair.
Money comes and goes, she declared, drawing forth a hefty parcel in gleaming paper. Beauty fades, but skill care for one’s husband is what makes a family strong. I thought a long time about your present, Ellie. I settled on something you sorely need: knowledge.
She thunked the heavy gift onto the table before Eleanor. The room fell quiet. Guests exchanged nervous glances. William coughed awkwardly.
Eleanor, steadying her hands, peeled away the paper. It was a great, weighty hardback: The Grand Compendium of English Cookery and Household Wisdom. A Golden Collection. On the cover, a beaming woman in an apron proffered a steaming casserole.
Not merely a book, Margaret explained, voice oozing sweet poison. A family heirloom, of sorts. I bought it for you especially, and before giving it, I enhanced it. Youll find bookmarks and notes throughout what William likes, how to get a proper rich red for beef and ale stew (none of this wishy-washy nonsense), how to starch shirts so a husband goes out looking like a director, not a scarecrow. Make use of it, dear. Learn. Its never too late to become a good wife.
A guest tittered nervously. Eleanor’s mother flushed and opened her mouth to respond, but Eleanor squeezed her hand under the table. Not now. Not before everyone. She would not start a row on her own birthday.
Thank you, Margaret, Eleanor replied evenly. A very substantial present. I shall study it.
She slid the book aside, close to the vase, and deftly changed the subject to the cake. The rest of the evening blurred past. She smiled, joked, poured tea, but inside humiliation simmered. This wasnt a gift it was a public slap, prettily wrapped.
When the last guest departed and the dishwasher whirred in the kitchen, Eleanor slumped onto the sofa and picked up the book. William, whod been making a show of ignoring his mothers present, sat beside her and draped an arm about her shoulders.
Ellie, please, dont take it to heart. She means well, really, just a bit old-fashioned. Maybe overstepped, but she thought it would help.
Overstepped? Eleanor opened the book. Here, look.
Margarets colourful notes stood out everywhere. Scrawled on the flyleaf: To my beloved daughter-in-law, in hopes my son will stop living on dry rations and remember what real food tastes like.
On the recipe for cottage pie: Must mince meat yourself! Supermarket mince is for the lazy and the useless.
In the cleaning section: Dust under beds reflects on the housewifes character. Yours could grow potatoes.
On ironing: Trousers should have creases sharp enough to cut. What William wears is a disgrace.
It wasnt a cookery book. It was a ledger of grievances, each page a jab disguised as maternal care. Margaret had spent hours crafting these little barbs. Shed prepared, shed looked forward to handing over this life manual.
Mum just worries for me, William muttered, leafing through some of the comments, his ears reddening. Shall I just, you know, tuck it away somewhere for good?
No, Eleanor snapped the heavy book shut, the thud echoing like a pistol shot. You dont hide gifts. They ought to be handled as they deserve.
The next few days, Eleanor was pensive. She didnt shout, didnt berate William, though he braced for it. She simply worked, ordered dinner, and sometimes flicked through the book before bed, making notes in her own little journal.
Saturday arrived. Traditionally Margarets for lunch. Usually Eleanor would find an excuse, but this day she set about getting ready herself.
Are we really going to mums? William was surprised, watching her style her hair with rather more care than usual.
Of course. Its rude not to visit after such a lavish celebration. Besides, I have a gift for her as well. Turnabout and all that.
William tensed.
Please, love, dont start a war. Shes not young
Not starting a war, darling. Ending one.
They arrived at Margaret’s for lunch. The house, as always, smelt of fried onions and polish. Spotless, starched doilies, not a speck of dust. Margaret greeted them in an apron, radiating satisfaction, sure her plan had worked.
Come in, come in, she cooed. Just put the pasties in. Cabbage, Williams favourite. You must be hungry I know your eating habits
They sat. Eleanor was impeccably civil, praising the baking, inquiring after Margarets health. Margaret relaxed, letting down her guard.
When tea was finished, Eleanor reached for the book.
Margaret smiled triumphantly.
What is it now, Ellie? Questions? Dont be shy, the chapter on bread can be tricky. Ill explain if you like
Margaret, Eleanors voice was gentle but unyielding I read every note you made, every piece of advice.
Margaret beamed.
I realised this book is invaluable. Its the essence of your experience. Of your world-view.
Isnt it just! Margaret glowed.
Which is why, Eleanor placed the volume by Margaret, I simply cannot, in good conscience, keep it.
The smile slid from Margarets face.
What, youre returning a present? Thats the height of rudeness!
Hear me out, please, Eleanor held up a hand. Its not about manners. Its about what fits. This book sets out the ideal woman up at dawn, kneading dough, treating dust as a mortal blow, living entirely to serve her man. That is you, Margaret. You are truly exceptional at it.
Eleanor paused, meeting her eyes.
But that isnt me. I earn my living by my wits, not my hands. An hour of my work pays for a weeks groceries. If I spent hours a day folding dumplings, our household would run at a loss we worked it out. Its not worthwhile.
William spluttered into his tea but said nothing, his gaze brimming with admiration.
Most importantly, Eleanor placed her hand on the book. I read your comments about being lazy, useless, a disgrace. I realised this book isnt full of love, but lets say, dissatisfaction. Happy people dont scrawl insults in birthday gifts.
Margaret flushed scarlet.
How dare you! I spent my whole life
Exactly. You spent your life making a home, and you did it well. Id like to spend mine living, with your son. Loving him, not just his dinner. Travelling, walking, talking not always at the cookers side.
She retrieved a small envelope.
Im returning your book it doesnt belong in our home. But I dont like to be in anyones debt. You gave me a manual how to be a maid. Id like to offer you something in return something that reminds you youre a woman, not just a cook.
She placed the envelope atop the book.
In it youll find a voucher for the city’s finest dance studio tango lessons. Plus a certificate for ten luxury massages. I noticed your back troubles you, probably from so much cooking.
Silence. Only the ticking of the antique wall clock. Margaret gazed at the book, then the envelope, then her daughter-in-law. Her composure was shattered. Shed had her poison handed back in a bottle of concern. If she exploded now, shed prove herself a shrew; if she refused, shed seem weak.
Dance lessons? My age?
The very best, smiled Eleanor. People your age, entirely respectable. Perhaps youll find other joys beyond hunting dust under beds.
Eleanor stood.
Thank you for lunch. The pasties were excellent. William, are you coming? Well catch that film if we hurry.
William, who had sat hunched in anxious silence, stood, grinned, and joined her.
Mum, thanks for lunch. Pasties were ace! He gave a thumbs-up. But Ellies right; she doesnt need to cook for me. I love her as she is. And honestly, Mum I like trying new food. Thai one week, Georgian the next. Its fun. Please dont take it the wrong way.
He kissed his stunned mothers cheek, took Eleanors arm, and off they went.
As they pulled on their coats, silence hung from the kitchen. Margaret sat facing her Golden Compendium, the dance voucher untouched.
In the car, William exhaled so heavily it fogged the glass.
Blimey, El! I thought wed have World War Three! But you handled her so genteelly. Not economically viable! Marvellous!
Was I wrong? Eleanor fastened her seatbelt and glanced in the rear view. I just drew a line. Your mums not a bad sort, William. Just blinded by habits. She thinks suffering in the kitchen proves her worth and wants me to join in, so her own toil isnt for nothing. But I shant.
Think shell go dancing? William grinned, starting the car.
Who knows. Maybe shell toss the voucher. Maybe shell go. Either way, she wont foist that book on me again. Nor, with luck, jibes about dust.
A week passed. Margaret phoned William once, asked how things were, and kept the chat brief. The book was never mentioned.
Then, a month on, on a Saturday when Eleanor and William had slept gloriously late, the phone rang.
Yes, Mum? William mumbled. No, not today? Oh youre busy? Why?
His eyebrows soared as he put her on speaker.
our showcase is in two weeks, rehearsals every day! Margarets voice sounded excited, even rather youthful. My partner Peter, retired Army, very fussy but such a wonderful lead! Sorry, darlings, no pasties today. Youll have to get your pizza or whatever. Must dash, new shoes to break in!
The call ended. William and Eleanor stared, then burst out laughing.
It worked! Eleanor flopped back onto the pillow. Peter, eh? Retired Army. Watch out, Peter, the generals coming; hope you know how to crease your shirts.
At least shes left us in peace, William smiled blissfully. Ellie, shall we order sushi?
Lets. The biggest platter theyve got.
Eleanor gazed at the ceiling, lighter than shed felt in years. Turns out, to win a mother-in-law war, you neednt fight fire with fire or strive to please. You simply return others expectations to them, and offer them the chance for something better. The cookery book with its venomous notes was history. In the present there was freedom, a lazy Saturday morning, and a husband who loved her for who she was, not what she cooked. And that, thought Eleanor, was the very best recipe for happiness, one that no compendium would ever print.
