When Michael and I stepped into Emily’s flat, the scent that wrapped around me nearly made me forget why we’d come in the first place. The air was rich with the aroma of roast beef, freshly baked pies, and spices that seemed to dance around us. I paused in the doorway, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath—it smelled like home, celebration, and a bit of magic. And when I saw the table, I was speechless. The dishes looked like they belonged in a gourmet museum. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to admire them or grab a plate straight away.
Emily, an old friend of mine, had always been a whiz in the kitchen, but this time she’d outdone herself. Michael and I had been invited over for dinner—just a casual get-together, no special occasion, just good company. I’d expected something simple—maybe a salad, a roast chicken, or tea with biscuits. But what I saw was a proper feast. The table groaned under plates of glazed pork with a herb crust, rosemary-roasted potatoes, veggies arranged like a still-life painting, and an apple pie with a golden crust that filled the room with cinnamon and warmth. There were even three different sauces in little porcelain boats, each one a masterpiece.
“Emily, are you opening a restaurant or what?” I blurted, unable to tear my eyes away. She just laughed and waved me off. “Oh, Sarah, I just fancied treating you two. Sit down, let’s dig in!” Michael, my husband, who’s usually a man of few words, was already reaching for his fork, but I nudged him. “Hold on, I need to snap a photo first—this deserves to go straight on Instagram!” Emily rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased. That’s just like her—puts her heart into cooking, then acts like it’s no big deal.
We sat, and the feast began. The pork melted in my mouth, with just a hint of garlic and something else I couldn’t place. “Emily, what’s your secret?” I asked, and she grinned. “Bit of love, that’s all!” I laughed, but part of me believed it—how else could even a simple tomato and cucumber salad taste like art? Michael, who usually eats in silence, suddenly piped up, “Emily, if you cook like this every day, I’m moving in.” We all had a chuckle, but I caught him eyeing the leftovers.
Between bites, Emily shared how she’d prepared each dish. She’d spent the whole day in the kitchen, and some recipes had been passed down from her gran. “This pie,” she said, “Gran made it for every holiday. I just tweaked it with extra vanilla and cinnamon.” I listened in awe—how did she have the patience? My signature dish is cheese on toast, and that’s only if the cheese is pre-grated. Meanwhile, she’d created a symphony of flavours, all with such care it made me want to hug her.
But the real magic wasn’t just the food—it was the atmosphere. Her home felt warm, with a little vase of flowers on the table, candles casting a cosy glow, and soft jazz playing in the background. I realised how long it’d been since I felt this relaxed. Even Michael, who usually scrolls on his phone after meals, was grinning and sharing stories from his school days. Emily had turned an ordinary evening into something special.
Somewhere between a second slice of pie and a cup of herbal tea, I asked, “How do you manage it all? Work, keeping house, and still putting on spreads like this?” She thought for a moment and said, “Cooking’s my escape, Sarah. I pop on some music, chop veggies, knead dough—it’s like meditating. And seeing you lot enjoy it? That’s worth every minute.” I watched her and wished I had even a fraction of her talent and patience. Maybe then I’d bake pies instead of dialling for takeaway.
As we were leaving, Emily pressed a container of leftover pie and roast into my hands. “Take it,” she insisted. “For later!” I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Sarah, don’t argue—I made it for you two.” Stepping outside, it hit me—this evening wasn’t just about the food. It was about friendship, warmth, and the joy of sharing. Emily had reminded me how important it is to slow down, gather around the table, and savour the moment.
Now I’m thinking I ought to invite Emily over next. Though I’m already panicking—what on earth will I serve? My cheese on toast won’t hold a candle to her cooking. Maybe I’ll order fish and chips and pretend I tried. Kidding. I’ll ask her for a couple of recipes and give it a proper go. And if it flops, I’ll just say, “Emily, you’re the queen of the kitchen—I’m still learning.” And I know she’ll just laugh and say it’s the company that counts. That’s just her way.
