When Michael and I stepped into Eleanor’s flat, the aroma that wrapped around me nearly made me forget why we’d come at all. The air was rich with the scent of freshly roasted meat, warm pastries, and spices that seemed to dance on the breeze. I paused in the doorway, closed my eyes, and drew a deep breath—this was the smell of comfort, celebration, and something almost magical. Then I looked at the table and was utterly speechless. Laid out before us were dishes fit for a culinary museum. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to marvel or reach for a plate.
Eleanor, an old friend of mine, had always been skilled in the kitchen, but this time she’d outdone herself. Michael and I had been invited for supper—no occasion, just a casual evening to catch up. I’d expected something simple: a salad, perhaps roast chicken, tea with biscuits. But what greeted us was a proper feast. The table groaned under the weight of golden-brown pork with a herb crust, rosemary-roasted potatoes, vegetables arranged like a painting, and a pie with a crisp, buttery top that smelled of apples and cinnamon. And then the sauces—three different ones, each in its own delicate dish, each a masterpiece.
“Eleanor, are you opening a restaurant?” I blurted, unable to tear my eyes away. She just laughed and waved me off. “Oh, Eliza, I just fancied treating you. Sit down—let’s dig in!” Michael, usually a man of few words, was already reaching for his fork, but I nudged him. “Hold on, I need a picture first—this has to go online!” Eleanor rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased. That was her way—cooking with all her heart, then brushing it off as nothing.
We settled at the table, and the real indulgence began. The meat melted on
my tongue, hints of garlic and something else I couldn’t place. “Eleanor, what sorcery is this?” I asked. She grinned. “Secret ingredient—love!” I laughed, but deep down, I believed her. How else could a simple tomato and cucumber salad taste like art? Even Michael, who usually ate in silence, remarked, “Eleanor, if you cook like this every day, I’m moving in.” We all chuckled, though I noticed him eyeing the serving dish for seconds.
Between bites, Eleanor shared how she’d prepared each dish. She’d spent the whole day in the kitchen, some recipes passed down from her grandmother. “This pie,” she said, “Gran baked it for every holiday. I just added a bit of vanilla and extra cinnamon.” Listening, I wondered how she had the patience. I could barely last an hour cooking—my signature dish was cheese on toast, and that was if the cheese was pre-grated. But here was a symphony of flavours, all made with such care it made me want to hug her.
What struck me most was the atmosphere Eleanor had created. Not just the food, but her whole home seemed to hum with warmth. A small vase of flowers sat on the table, candles cast a soft glow, and jazz played quietly in the background. I realised I hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. Even Michael, who usually retreated into his phone after dinner, stayed, smiling and sharing tales from his youth. Eleanor had turned an ordinary evening into something special.
Between a second slice of pie and a cup of herbal tea, I asked, “Eleanor, how do you manage all this? Work, home, and still pulling off suppers like this?” She paused. “Cooking’s my meditation, Eliza. I put on music, chop veg, knead dough—and all the worries fade. And seeing you enjoy it? That’s worth every minute.” I looked at her and wished I had even a drop of her talent. Maybe then I’d bake a pie instead of dialling for takeaway.
As we left, Eleanor pressed a container of leftovers into my hands. “Take it,” she insisted. I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Eliza, don’t argue—I made this for you.” Outside, it hit me: the evening wasn’t just about food. It was about friendship, warmth, the joy of sharing. Eleanor had reminded me to slow down, gather, savour the moment.
Now I’m thinking of inviting her over in return—though the idea panics me. What could I possibly serve? My cheese on toast won’t measure up. Maybe I’ll order fish and chips and pretend I tried. Joking, of course. I’ll ask for a recipe or two and give it a go. And if it flops? I’ll just say, “Eleanor, you’re the queen of the kitchen—I’m still learning.” And I know she’ll laugh and say the company’s what matters. That’s just her way.
