Porridge Instead of Truffles
I was hunched over the hob, watching something that had taken two hours of my life slowly split and curdle in the saucepan. The creamy truffle sauce for my wild mushroom risotto was supposed to be smooth, silky, nearly alive; instead, the whole thing had separated. Butter floated like a sad oil slick, while the dense base clung in miserable lumps to the bottom.
I lowered the heat and began to stir in cold butter, cube by cube, moving in a slow circle. My hands remembered the motion on their own. Outside, dusk had fallen; the streetlights along Grafton Street flickered on, and somewhere below, cars hissed through the London drizzle. Your typical October evening in Marylebone.
Lizzie, will it be much longer? Ive been starving since two oclock,
James stood in the kitchen doorway. He always stopped there, as if the kitchen were occupied enemy territory, his hands pocketed and wearing that odd expression Id never managed to name in twenty-three years. Not impatiencesomething else.
Twenty minutes more, I said, back to him. The sauces being fussy.
Twenty minutes. Right.
He vanished. I heard him flop onto the living room sofa, crank up the telly, then nudge the volume so low it was basically on mute. Another one of his signals. I knew them all by heart.
In the end, the sauce worked. Not flawless, but almost. The risotto was just right, that elusive stickiness that takes practice. I plated it up, shaved over a sliver of black truffle Id bought at Borough Market from a grinning chap who charged me as much for one lump as I used to spend on nice lunches with Claire.
I set the table, lit candlesnot for the romance, but because food and, frankly, my face, both looked better by candlelight. Less chance of spotting creases below the eyes.
James sat down, picked up his fork, and eyed the plate. For a long moment.
Risotto again, he said finally.
You asked for something with mushrooms.
I said mushrooms. Didnt have to be risotto. I had risotto last week at Tobys restaurantproper chef, you know, professional. Sort of hard to compare.
I took my seat opposite, picked up my own fork.
Just try it first.
He tasted a mouthful, chewed with the solemn drama of a food inspector.
The rice is a bit overdone.
The rice is just rightal dente, as its meant to be.
Well, thats your opinion.
We ate in silence. I watched the candles. He studied his plate with that odd look. Outside, London moved on, unbothered and ignorant of risotto woes.
Bit greasy, this sauce, he addded at the end.
I didnt reply.
You ask why I say things? Because being honest is how you improve. You want to grow as a cook, dont you? Not just pat yourself on the back.
I didnt ask, I said.
Well, thats a shame.
He went to watch football. I cleared up, washed up, scraped the last globs of sauce from the pan. That truffle sauce cost more than a decent bottle of perfume, and Id remade it three times just to get the texture. Id followed a French cookbook Id picked up at a cooking course for a small fortune. Id carried that sauce from the market in a special container, so it wouldnt split in transit.
Greasy.
I put my hands on the edge of the sink and watched the water swirl away. Then I dried my hands, turned off the kitchen light, and went to the bedroom.
Just an ordinary evening.
***
Mrs. Harper arrived at three on Saturday, right on schedule. She always phoned about forty minutes ahead, giving me time to tidy the lounge and throw something together for tea. My mother-in-law was the type to notice dust, but never mention it directlyjust a gentle glance across the sideboard, and you knew.
She was seventy-eight. Small, bird-like, with an upright back a Pilates instructor would covet. Shed lost her husband six years earlier and insisted on living alone in her flat over in Chiswick despite James cajoling. I never argued with her about moving. We both understood, and we never said it aloud.
That Saturday, she looked paler than usual. I clocked it as I opened the door.
Come in, Mrs. Harper. I made a walnut cake.
Thank you, Lizzie. Is James in?
Hes popped over to see Toby. Hell be back later.
She nodded and went straight to the kitchenunusual, since she normally made a beeline for the armchair in the lounge, her favourite perch.
I poured the tea, sliced cake. We sat across from each other.
How are you feeling? I asked.
Fine. A bit of blood pressure, nothing serious.
She took a sliver of cake, nibbled it.
Tasty, she said, and it sounded so honest and warm that I got a lump in my throat.
We sat in comfortable silence, Mrs. Harper sipping tea, gazing out at the windblown trees, crisp naked by the end of October.
Lizzie, can I ask you something? she finally said, You wont take offence?
Ill try not to.
She searched my face for a moment, long and slow.
Do you remember that you used to be a designer?
I was caught off guard.
I remember.
A good one?
I was told so, yes.
I know you were. I saw your projects. That flat you did in Knightsbridge for the doctors, I remember. I visited them oncebeautiful. I thought: heres someone who can see space.
I stared at her.
Why are you bringing this up, Mrs. Harper?
She placed her cup down, precisely, the way people do when theyve learned never to make a fuss, not even a clink out of place.
Because I feel ashamed, she said quietly.
I didnt know what to say. Mrs. Harper was of the generation that could keep silent about lifes actual heartbreaks.
I should have told you sooner. Much sooner. Perhaps ten years ago, when you stopped working. But I didnt; thought it wasnt my place, thought maybe you wanted it that way, maybe thats how things ought to be.
She looked at her hands on the table. Still elegant for her agelong fingers, neat nails.
James has never liked fancy food.
I thought Id misheard.
Sorry?
He doesnt like it. Never has. Weak stomach since his twenties, Lizzie. Doctor told him years ago: keep it simpleporridge, stews, boiled meat. Porridge with a chop, thats his comfort food. Eaten it since he could chew. Every day, if he could, with butter.
The kitchen seemed to hum with the distant fridge, like a strangers house.
So why, then, I began, and my voice sounded foreign, Whyd he ask for foie gras and truffles and say the sauce isnt silky enough? She finished my question.
Mrs. Harper lifted her eyes. There was something in them that made me coldnot anger, not pity, just something worn and weighty.
Because he likes the process. Watching you strive, dash about, spend time and money and energy, waiting for his judgement. He likes to say its not quite good enough. It makes him feel important.
I put down my cup, very carefully.
Do you realise what youre saying?
I do. Ive been thinking about it for a long time before coming today. I do.
And you said nothing for ten years.
I said nothing for thirty-eight years, Lizzie. Since Colin started doing the same thing to me.
Colin. Her late husband, Jamess father. I barely knew him; hed died a year after our wedding. I only remembered him as a big, booming man with perfect manners in public.
He was a real gourmet, so he said, she continued, bitterness tucked away under a calm voice. I cooked and cooked, always trying to impress. Too greasy, meat too dry. Then one day I saw him eat porridge at his mothers in the countrythe way he ate. Like a man finally home. Three bowlfuls. With butter. With bread. No criticism, just peaceful, happy eating.
Thats when I finally got it. But I didnt leave. Different timeswe didnt leave. And James grew up seeing it work. Learnt that it gets you power. So he took up the tool, used it himself.
He does it deliberately, I said. Not really a question anymore.
I dont think he sits down and plots, Today Ill belittle my wife. People dont work like that. They act out what they know, what gets them what theyre used tobeing right, being needed, at someone elses expense.
I stood up. Not to go anywherejust couldnt sit still. I looked out at the October rain, at the damp pavement, at people passing with umbrellas.
Ten years.
Ten years of cookery classes. Beginners, advanced, French, Italianyou name it. I read books, watched videos, chatted with chefs online. Id trek out especially for the right produce, select the wine, fret about balance, wake up in the night having solved some sauce.
I thought I was finding a new vocation after leaving design.
All along, he was really eating porridge. Inside.
Why now? I asked, back to her.
Because Im old, Mrs. Harper said simply. And youre still young. Fifty-two isnt oldits nearly the start, Lizzie.
I turned around. She looked straight at me. No pity. That in itself was important.
And because Im to blame. Not on purpose. I brought him up to think it normal. Thats on me. But at least I can tell you the truth.
I returned to the table, sat, sipped my cold tea.
He wont change, she said. Im not telling you what to do. But you ought to know.
We finished teaalmost silently. Then she got ready to leave, and I helped her with the buttons on her coat because her fingers didnt always co-operate anymore.
The walnut cake was really good, she said at the door.
Thank you.
Simple. Homey. The best cake youve made for me.
She left. I stood in the hallway for quite a while just staring at Jamess jackets on the peg.
***
The next two weeks I cooked all the usual things, still on autopilot. Made duck terrine, whipped up a lobster bisquewhich required a special trip. Tried a Japanese-inspired dessert Id learned in the springs course.
James ate and criticised as always. I listened in silence.
But something inside had shifted. It was as if a pane of glass had slid between me and the world. I watched myself from a distance: there at the stove, zesting a lemon, adding saffron, plating up and waiting. Waiting. Watching his face as he looked at the food, just before he spoke.
And I saw what Id missedthe flicker of pleasure.
Not pleasure in the food. In the moment before his verdict. That instant of tense anticipation, the tiniest curl at the corner of his mouthlike a child about to tug a string.
I thought back to my design daysentering a flat and seeing it all, almost fully formed in my mind, hearing what clients really wanted. The thrill when theyd step into a space Id created and just pause in the doorway.
I had a little studio once. An office on Charlotte Street, sharing rent with two other designers. We drank terrible coffee and argued over paint colours well into the night.
James said it wasnt serious. That one must choosefamily or running about on building sites. He earned enough, so why work? Too much stress dealing with fussy clients. Someone had to be at home, didnt they?
I chose family. At forty-two, I told myself thered be time to go back later.
A decade passed.
So one evening I texted Claire Watsona colleague from the old days, still running a small bureau.
Claire, hi! Been meaning to reach out. Could we meet for a coffee?
She replied within half an hour.
Lizzie! Absolutely. How about tomorrow?
***
We met in a café on Great Portland Street. Claire was much the same, just short grey streaks in her hair, which she wore with pride.
You look well, she said.
You cant lie to save your life, I replied.
She laughed.
All right, you look tired. But good.
We ordered coffee. I didnt know how to start, just stared out the window.
Claire, have you got work? For me, I mean.
She eyed me thoughtfully.
Are you serious?
Entirely.
But youve not worked for ten years.
I know. But I havent forgotten. I dont think so, anyway.
She sat, turning her mug between her hands.
Ive got three projects. Ones a big country placecould use another pair of hands and a brain. But honestly, Lizzie, youd be like an intern at first. Not because youre less good, but programmes have changed, client expectations are different. Ready for that?
I am.
And how much do you want to earn?
Whatever you think is fair to start.
She examined me, saw something convincing.
All right. Come Monday, then, and lets see.
On Monday, I showed up. For the next three weeks, nine to six or seven every day. I relearned software, recalled old skills, made idiotic mistakes and scolded myself. But some things returned, like swimminga body memory.
At home, I cooked porridge.
The first time was almost comical. Got in late, exhausted, could only think of sleep. Opened the fridge, surveyed week-old ingredients from another failed fine-dining plan. Shut the fridge, opened the larder. There: porridge oats. Tinned stew. Butter.
Cooked the porridge, stirred in stew, a knob of butter. Put the plate on the table.
James! I called.
He looked at it as if it were an exam.
Whats this?
Porridge with stew.
I can see that. Are you all right?
Just tired. Its late. Ill cook something else tomorrow.
He sat, ate quietly. Not a single comment. Finished every bit.
I watched him and remembered what Mrs. Harper had said. About the old country house, three bowlsful, butter, silence, happiness. Like he was truly home.
He finished, left the room, said nothinggood or bad.
Which, in its own way, was an answer.
***
The conversation happened two weeks later. I was coming home from work, thinking about a colour palette for a rural project in Surrey. Walked in, shoes off. TV was on in the sitting room.
Where have you been? James asked, back to me. Its eight oclock!
Work.
With that Watson woman again.
Its called a job, James.
He muted the TV, finally faced me.
Lizzie. This isnt what we agreed.
What didnt we agree on?
That youd go missing all day, every day. Were a family. Theres a house to run. Theres nothing to eatthe fridge is empty.
Theres eggs, potatoes, ham. You can fry them up.
He looked at me as if Id started speaking Welsh.
Are you winding me up?
Nope. Just telling you whats there.
And where are your truffles now? Wheres your saucy stuff, eh? Dont you remember you can cook properly?
I set my bag down. Hung up my coat.
James, lets talk calmly. Can you manage that?
About?
About us. These last years. About this flat.
He tensedshoulders hunched, eyes narrowing slightly.
What about? I work, you used to stay at home.
I dont anymore. I wont, either.
So just like that, its decided?
Im trying to talk to you, right now.
He paced to the window, hovered, came back.
Lizzie, whats come over you? We had a perfectly NORMAL life. You cooked, I commented. That was our rhythm. OURS.
Yours, James. Not mine.
Oh here we go. My mothers been filling your head, hasnt she? I knew it. Swanned in and stirred it all up.
I looked at him, a man Id shared over two decades with, in a flat that came from his family, where Id never truly felt at home. It was all his: ceilings, walls, even the furniture chosen before we met. Id never changed a thing, even though I, of all people, could see how it could be so much better.
Your mum told me the truth, I said. Just the truth.
What truth, Lizzie? That shes an old lady who loves drama?
That you prefer plain food. That your stomachs delicate. That youve always loved porridge and a chop.
A pause. Briefbut it was there.
Thats rubbish, he said.
You ate it in silence, without a word, two weeks ago.
That was because I was starving!
James, I sighed, just stop for a moment. Please.
He halted, staring at me.
I dont want to battle. I want an honest chat. Are you ready for that? Ready to live differently? Not like these last ten years?
Something flickered in his eyes, almost real.
Differently, how?
As equals. You work, I work. Sometimes the foods simple, sometimes not, and none of it is grounds for humiliation. We both say what we mean. No more performances.
A long silence.
I never belittled you, he said at last. Quietly. I was just being honest. Im a straight-talker.
James.
What now?
You acted like you didnt love porridge, while I spent time and money on truffles.
Silence.
That wasnt honest, I said gently. Just the fact.
He didnt answer. Went off to the bedroom, shutting the door quietlynever slamming, that would be too childish. Just a decisive click.
I went to the kitchen, fried some potatoes, ate alone at the table. Then sat there for ages with a cuppa, listening to him walk about the bedroom.
***
The next months felt like a slow thaw. Not cinematic, no rivers of tearsjust each day peeling away another scrap of old habit.
James tried various approaches.
First, sulking. For days he moped about, mortally wounded, hoping Id rush to reconcile. I didnt. Cooked basic mealsstew, bangers, potato wedges. Cleaned. Went to work. Came home.
Then tried sweetness. One night, brought home tulips (in November, clearly bought at the tube). Claimed hed missed me. We hadnt been out in ageshow about dinner? I agreed. He was gracious, chatty, asked after work, even laughed at my jokes. I thought: maybe, maybe this is it.
The next day, he asked why I hadnt planned anything special for his friends at the weekend. As if on autopilot.
Ill do pasta and salad, I told him.
Pasta?
Yes, pasta.
Seriously?
Entirely.
And I saw that lookthe one I recognised now. He didnt know I could see it.
The rows came nextproper shouting matches with lists of everything hed ever given me: the flat, the money, my freedom not to work, time to experiment with cookery. All recited as investments he now wanted a return on.
You invested, yeah, I said, no malice. But Im not a business venture, James. Im a human being. Investments dont work quite the same with people.
He didnt get it. Or didnt want to.
Mrs. Harper rang weekly. Never intrusive, never long. Shed ask how I was, sometimes throw in a bit of encouragement. Once, she said:
Hes angry with me, isnt he?
A bit, I admitted.
Let him be. Hes allowed. But you should knowIm on your side. First time in my life Ive properly chosen a side, you see. Never allowed myself before.
I understood.
In December, Claire handed me my first solo clientsmall flat in Richmond, young couple. Concept and project delivery, start to finish. I barely slept for daysnot for lack of knowledge, but fear Id forgotten how to be brilliant.
Turns out, I hadnt.
The young client walked in, stood in the lounge, looked around, silent for a full half minute. Then turned to me.
Youre a miracle worker! she said.
I remembered that feeling. Thats what it was called.
***
By February, I realised it wasnt going to work with James. Not because I didnt want to tryI’d given him chances, talked endlessly, never stormed out to a friend, didnt call a solicitor or read up (though, truth be told, articles about toxic relationships were popping up quite regularly on my phone and I did peruse a few). But I held fast, trying to build something new.
But he didnt want new.
He wanted me to go backnot to myself, but to the old version of me: standing at the stove, looking for his verdict. His wife wasnt what he really needed. He needed a mirror, one that confirmed his own importance.
How do you know your husbands a manipulator? Like this, probably. When his happiness comes not from your happinessbut from your anticipation of his approval. When without that, he doesnt know who he is.
James wasnt evil. He didnt drink, didnt hit, paid the bills, didnt cheat as far as I knew. I suppose he loved me in his way, or loved something he called love.
But you cant live with that. Not because it hurts every day, but because it erodes you, drip by drip, until youre unrecognisable.
I filed for divorce in March.
At first, he didnt believe me. Then tried persuasion. Then anger. Then back to persuasion. Mrs. Harper intervened; I dont know what she told him, but afterwards he shrank, withdrew. Not defeated, not resignedjust suddenly cold, a stranger.
The flat was his, always had been. I moved in with my friend Claire for three months before renting a place. In June, I got a cosy two-bed in Islington, overlooking an old little laneless picturesque than Grafton Street, but alive, real.
Did the new place up myselfjust a basic refurb, but I chose every detail with such delight I sometimes laughed at myself. Turns out Id always known my own taste, just never asked.
***
A years passed.
Its now April. Im fifty-three. Out my Islington window, the trees lining the street are tipped with tiny white blossomsIve no idea what theyre called, but every morning I look out as I make my coffee.
Coffee is simple now, on the hob. Good beans, but none of the fancy rigmarole.
Claire made me a partner in January. Weve four projects on; I run two of them. I sleep again. Sometimes I wake with thoughts about space or light, about a difficult corner in someones flatbut this is good; its my brain working, not panic.
Mrs. Harper still rings weekly. Recently, I visited her in Chiswick, brought a cake. We drank tea and spoke for agesabout her husband, about the years of silence. I thought about family patternsthe unhappy way one life can teach the next until someone pauses and says, No. Enough.
Mrs. Harper couldnt stop it for herself. But she helped me. That matters.
James is still in the old flat. Sometimes we exchange messages, rarely. Heard through friends hes signed up to cookery classes. Maybe its true. Sometimes people changewhen theres no one left to lord over.
I rarely think of him. Sometimes, in the shops, I notice a black truffle in a jar and pause, feel somethingnot quite bitterness, not quite laughter. Something tangled: ten years dont vanish.
But I dont dwell.
I met Andrew last September. He came as a client, looking to revamp his flat after his wife diedtwo years back, cancer, very quick. The flat was dated, full of her photos. He just wanted it lighter. To breathe.
I understood.
Hes fifty-foura structural engineer, designs bridges. I cant help but note: he builds bridges, I create interiors. Theres something in that.
Hes calm. Not quiet, just… calm. Looks you in the eye, listens, laughs if somethings funny, doesnt try to seem more important.
At our second project meeting, he asked for coffee after.
We did coffee. Then a walk. Then more coffee. Then a film, a decent French one, and he laughed just soand I remembered that its nice having someone actually alive in the room with you.
Weve been seeing each other a few months. No rush. We both know theres no hurryafter all weve seen.
He turns up on Fridays.
***
Today is Friday.
I came home at six and started unpacking grocerieschicken thighs, potatoes, an onion, some carrots, a bunch of dill, and a pot of crème fraîche.
Chicken and veg make a lovely oven bake. Not a pie, exactlymore a layer bake: potatoes, chicken, onion, carrot, dollop of crème fraîche, all baked together for an hour. Dill to finish.
Its what I fix when I want something homely, nothing flash.
As the bake sizzled, I changed clothes, soaking in the smell filling the flatonion, butter, chicken, a touch of garlic. Utterly ordinary. Like the kitchen at Grannys when I was littleI hadnt thought about it for decades.
At seven, the buzzer rang.
I opened the door. Andrew walked in, juggling a bag. I could see a bottle of wine poking out the top.
Evening, he said.
Hello. Can you smell it yet?
He sniffed.
Something good Potatoes?
Oven bake. Ready in an hour.
Brilliant, he said with a grin. He hung his coat and fished in the bag. Got wine. And He produced a small box of chocolate truffles in bog-standard supermarket packaging. Nothing posh.
You like them with hazelnuts, he said.
I took the box.
How do you know?
You mentioned itback in September, we passed a sweet shop.
I stood there, box in hand, thinking of everything these gestures meant.
You remember things, I said.
I try, he replied, utterly matter-of-fact.
We made our way to the kitchen. I checked the bake; nearly there. He opened the wine, poured us both a glass. Perched on a stool.
Hows the project on Chancery Lane? he asked.
Challenging client, I confessed. Wants everything immediately, and not to break the bank.
Classic.
Yup. But itll come together. High ceilings, too good to waste.
He nodded, watched me stir the pan.
Lizzie?
Mm?
Are you happy? I mean right nownot in general, but right now?
I looked at him. He was asking. Properly.
Right now? I paused, listened to myself. Yes. I really am.
Good, he smiled, and left it at that.
The bake was ready. I let it settle for five minutes, snipped dill over the top, put it on the table. No candles, just the light above.
Andrew looked at the dish.
Looks marvellous, he said.
Its just a layer bake.
Still looks great, smells great. You ever make ugly food?
I laughed.
Never tried.
We ate. He asked for secondsjust handed me his plate. I served him more. We chatted: about bridge projects, his upcoming trip to see his daughter in Edinburgh, my vague plans to get away for a weekend. He suggested maybe Scotland or Wales.
After, we had tea, then chocolate truffles.
Outside, its spring in London, the city alive, the street lined with white blossoms bowing in the breeze.
And I thought: this is it. Not a celebration, not a red-letter day. Just an evening. Someone warm next to you, dinner that smells of childhood, and not a single moment waiting for a verdict.
I do think about those years. Truffles, lobster bisque, sauces that split. How I worked so hard, only to hear: Bit greasy. Sometimes Im sadsad for that woman I was, so long trying, not realising. But you cant mourn too long. Thats a luxury Im past.
Self-esteemI read once that its supposed to be fixed, like height or eye colour. Rubbish. Its something you build, or rebuildfrom scratch at fifty-two, at someone elses desk, muddling through unfamiliar software and swearing under your breathbut not walking out. Sticking with it, and slowly you begin to see the space again.
Boundariesa fashionable word. Im not one for fads, but I grasp now what it means: knowing where you end and someone else begins. Not a wall. Just a line. Im here. This is mine.
The recipe for happiness is, in the end, very simple: do what youre good at, be around people who see you, cook what you fancy, dont wait for applause.
What are you thinking? Andrew asked.
I looked at him, at his calm face, his tea.
About the bake, I said.
He laughed.
Its a good topic.
The very best. More tea?
Please.
I refilled his cup, then mine, set the pot back on the counter, gazed at the white trees outside.
Andrew,
Yes?
Youre never going to tell me Ive oversalted, are you?
He lifted his gaze.
You didnt. It was just right.
And if I ever do?
He pondered.
Id say, Next time, maybe a touch less salt. And eat it anyway.
I nodded.
Good answer.
I try, he said, reaching for the last truffle. Mind if I?
All yours.
Outside, the streets hummed and the trees danced in the wind, and London rolled on, indifferent to sauces and porridge and wasted years. The city simply lived. And I simply lived. The tea was hot, the kitchen still smoky with dinner, and there on my windowsill sat a potted plant I bought last week just because I liked its leaf colour.
Simply because I liked the colour.
Thats how I live now.
