She quit preparing the briny sauces for her fatherinlaw and motherinlaw the moment she caught their whispered remarks about her.
Emily, are you sure the duck is done? Dad hates tough meat; you know he has a bite, Simon peered into the oven, the heat lashing his eyebrows, and prodded the golden bird with a fork.
Emily, balancing a massive tray piled with cabbageandegg pasties, let out a tired sigh, wiping a stray curl from her forehead.
Simon, Ive marinated this duck for two days in orange juice and honey. Itll melt in the mouth like butter. Better fetch the jellied meat from the fridge it should have set by now and check that we have enough bread; your parents never sit down without a crusty roll.
The kitchen swirled with that preholiday chaos that usually erupts before Christmas or a wedding. Yet the calendar showed an ordinary Friday in midJuly. Outside the country cottage, cicadas droned, the evening air smelled of warm pine and the nearby river, but Emily had no time for natures beauty. For the past five years every weekend had unfolded the same way: a marathon at the stove, a deep house clean, and the arrival of the demanding guests her fatherinlaw Victor and motherinlaw Gillian.
Victor and Gillian were oldschool people, exacting about home life and especially about food. We dont eat from the supermarket; its all chemicals, Gillian would say, pursing her lips. So Emily, a chief accountant at a large firm, transformed each Friday into the head chef of a fivestar restaurant.
Looks like everythings ready, Simon said, wiping his hands on his apron as he surveyed the table set on the veranda. Starchcloth tablecloth, napkins folded into rings, a sweating decanter for Dad, homemade berry drink for Mum. Youre a wizard, Em. Mum will find something to nitpick, but I know no one cooks better than you.
Emily managed a weak smile. Simons praise was a small comfort, but she had no energy left to enjoy it. Her back ached, her feet were swollen. And still, two more days of cultural programming loomed endless political chatter and a rotating menu.
At seven oclock a battered but polished Ford pulled up the driveway. The ritual began.
Oh, the traffic! Gillian, a solidbuilt woman with a towering coiffure, emerged, fanning herself with a handkerchief. I thought we wouldnt make it. Simon, why havent you mowed the grass by the fence? It looks untidy.
Hi, Mum, hi, Dad, Simon hurried to collect the bags. Ill mow tomorrow, havent got a minute now.
And wheres Emily? Gillian scanned the garden with a sharp stare. Still in the kitchen? She could have come out to meet us, teas ready, were not strangers.
Emily descended the steps, wiping her hands on her apron as she went.
Good afternoon, Gillian, Victor. Welcome. Dinners already on the table, everything hot.
Hope its not too greasy? Victor grumbled, shaking Emilys hand. The doctor told me to stay away from fried stuff; my liver protests.
Exactly what you like, Victor. Baked, light, Emily reassured him.
Dinner followed the usual script. Emily flitted between kitchen and veranda, swapping plates, refilling glasses, and presenting fresh starters. Victor and Gillian ate with gusto. The duck vanished within half an hour; the shrimpandavocado salad Emily invented especially for Gillian (who liked something fancy) was also a hit.
Well, Gillian dabbed her lips with a napkin and pushed her plate away. The ducks decent. A bit dry on the breast, but fine for an electric oven. But those pasties, Em, you added far too much butter to the dough. Theyre heavy.
Mum, come off it! Simon interjected. The pastry is as light as a cloud!
You love everything, dont you, son? Gillian waved him off. Im just being honest so you keep improving. By the way, the jellied meat looks cloudy. You should have strained the broth better.
Emily swallowed the sting. She had filtered the broth through four layers of cheesecloth; it was clear as a tear. Arguing would only provoke Gillian further.
Thanks for the notes, Ill keep them in mind, she replied dutifully, clearing the dishes.
The next day, Saturday, Emily rose at six. She had to set batter for pancakes (Victor loved them with cottage cheese and raisins), simmer a fresh pumpkin purée (Gillian had read somewhere that it brightens the complexion), and marinate kebabs for the evening. Simon slept, and the parents were still holed up on the upstairs landing.
By noon the heat became oppressive. Emily, flushed and sweating, was frying a third batch of zucchini fritters with a complex Greekyogurt and herb sauce. It felt less like a cottage kitchen and more like a factory floor.
Emily, Gillian called from the veranda. Could you brew some green tea? Not the teabags, but loose leaf with jasmine and fresh mint.
Right away, Gillian, Emily answered, turning off the stove.
She snapped fresh mint from the garden, brewed the tea in a delicate porcelain pot, laid out cups, a vase of homemade cherry jam, and carried the tray to the veranda.
The veranda door was ajar, a thick mosquito net muffling the sounds inside. Emilys footsteps were silent on the soft grass. She was about to push the door open when she heard her name.
look at her, Victor, Gillians voice floated, low but unmistakable, with that conspiratorial tone reserved for gossip. Shes running about like a headless chicken. Its sickening to watch.
Give her a break, Gillian, Victor drawled, sipping something from his glass. Shes trying. The duck was excellent yesterday, youre being harsh.
Delicious, yes Gillian mocked. Its not the duck, its the breed. Remember Irene, Simons ex? She was poised, dignified, never spent all day at the stove. This this simple girl, Victor, is a country bumpkin with a title. She thinks if she feeds us delicacies well adopt her as family and love her.
She does love cooking, Victor muttered.
Shes not loving it, shes currying favor! Gillian huffed. She sees were not her equal. Hes a gentleman, a catch; shes a grey mouse. She tries to buy our affection with her stomach. Its a pitiful sight. I watch her and feel both amusement and disgust. She cooks, serves, yet her face is flushed, hair stuck, flour on her hands. Shes not the lady of the house, shes a servant. We treat her like a freerange restaurant. We eat, we compliment out of politeness, and thats that. Shell keep trying, but she lacks the wit for more.
Emily froze. The tray in her hands trembled, the teapot lid rattled. She held her breath, fearing they might hear.
You, Gillian, could be gentler, Victor muttered. Were staying here, after all.
And Im not going to tell her off! Gillian snapped back. Im not a fool. Who else will make these briny sauces every weekend? Next week is my birthday. Ive hinted I want that Esterházy tortrich with nuts. Shell probably bake the layers all night. Ill taste it and say, Its fine, but the shop on Oxford Street does it better. Let her know her place.
Inside Emily felt something snap. The tight string that had held her endless patience and desire to be good finally broke. She stared at the worn slippers at her feet, feeling the sting of humiliation melt into a cold, crystalclear resolve.
Cook, servant, freerange restaurant, currying favor the words rolled through her mind like a storm.
She turned slowly. Her hands steadied. She walked to the blackcurrant bush, poured the jasminemint tea into it, and tucked the jam beneath the apple tree the ants would love it. She carried the empty teapot and cups back to the kitchen.
Then she slipped into the bathroom, splashed cool water on her face, brushed her hair, applied a light touch of makeup, and donned a clean linen dress.
When she stepped onto the veranda, Victor and Gillian were seated in wicker chairs.
Ah, theres the tea wheres the tea? Gillian asked, eyes widening at Emilys empty hands.
The teas finished, Emily replied calmly, sitting on a nearby chair and opening a book. The tea leaves and the gas for the kettle are both out, so Ill have water.
Water? Victor blurted. And lunch? You were frying something earlier.
I fried it, but I overcooked it and tossed it. I ruined the ingredients, Victor, my skill fell short, Emily smiled without looking up from the page. So todays lunch is light. Theres kefir in the fridge.
Evening settled into an awkward tension. Simon, returning from a fishing trip, looked bewildered.
Em, wheres the kebabs? You were supposed to marinate them, he asked, peering into an empty pot.
The meat got a funky smell, Simon, so I gave it to the neighbours dog, Emily replied, not flinching. Cant poison the parents.
Right what are we having then?
Boil some potatoes. Open a tin of sprats. Mum likes simple fare, no frills.
The dinner consisted of boiled new potatoes, a tin of sprats, and sliced cucumber. Gillian stared at her plate as if a dead mouse had been thrust into her hands.
Whats this? she asked, poking the potato with her fork.
Dinner, Mum, Simon chirped, shovelling the food into his cheeks. Emily says the meat went bad. Happens. At least the potatoes are fresh!
I wont eat that, Gillian said, pushing the plate away. My stomachs delicate. Emily, could you make me a steamed omelette?
Emily lifted her eyes slowly from her own plate.
No eggs left, Gillian. They were used for the morning pancakes. Im exhausted today. The stoves in the cupboard, the pans there. Simon can help you.
Silence settled over the table so dense it could be cut with a knife. Gillian sucked in air like a fish out of water. Victor gulped his whisky.
Are you ill, Em? Gillian asked venomously.
No, Im fine, Emily replied cryptically.
The following week Emily lived in anticipation. On Friday she didnt go to the supermarket for delicacies. She bought two packs of frozen Siberian dumplings on sale, a loaf of white bread, and a plain Doctors sausage.
When Simon saw the bags, he was surprised.
Em, wheres the fish, the cheese, the meat? Mums birthday is Saturday. You were going to bake a cake.
Simon, Im exhausted at work, Emily sighed. I decided wed just relax this weekend. As for the cake well get a storebought wafer cake, the one you love, Whimsy.
A wafer cake? Mum will be upset, Simon scratched his head. Shell take it badly.
She wont. Its the thought that counts, not the food.
Saturday morning the parents arrived, dressed up for a celebratory lunch. Gillian wore a new dress, Victor a shirt with a tie.
The birthday girl has arrived! Gillian announced grandly. Emily, what surprise will you bring? Aromas for the whole neighbourhood?
Happy birthday, Gillian, Emily handed her a modest bouquet of garden daisies. Wishing you health. Please, take a seat.
On the table sat a large pot, next to it a plate of sliced sausage, bread, and a tub of mayonnaise, untransferred to a sauce dish.
Whats this? Gillians voice trembled.
Dumplings, Emily replied brightly, lifting the pot lid. Steam rose in billowing clouds. Storebought, topgrade B tier. Sit down before they cool.
Gillian lowered herself slowly into a chair, eyeing the dumplings as if they were poisonous spiders.
You youre joking? she whispered. Im turning sixtyfive, and you give me a bag of frozen dumplings and boiled sausage?
Gillian, why all the fuss? Emily said, sitting opposite, scooping a dozen dumplings onto her plate and drizzling them with mayo. I thought, why the pretense? Why should I try to impress, to blush at the stove? Im just a simple girl, not that Irene you speak of.
Victor hiccuped a swig of whisky; Simon froze with a fork halfway to his mouth. Gillians complexion drained to a pale that made her powder blush vanish.
Did you did you hear? she demanded.
I heard, Emily nodded, still eating. Heard about the cook, the freerange restaurant, the attempt to buy love with a stomach. You were right, Gillian. Its foolish to purchase what isnt there. So the restaurant is closed. The chef quit. Now its selfservice. Want delicacies? Bring them yourself. Or cook them. Ill no longer waste my weekends trying to earn your approval, which, as it turns out, will never shine on me.
Simons eyes darted between his mother and wife, bewildered.
Mum, did you really say that?
Gillians face flushed, spots blooming on her neck.
We were just talking! Eavesdropping is rude! Im a mother! I have the right to an opinion! And you, she jabbed at Emily, youre spiteful, vengeful! You ruin a birthday!
Youre the ones ruining the celebration with your attitude, Emily replied calmly. I welcomed you as family, yet youve smeared me behind my back. So, Gillian, dumplings or starvation the choice is yours. By the way, theres a wafer cake for tea, very crunchy. Not Esterházy, of course, but it will do for a country girl.
Gillian sprang from her seat.
Im not staying! Victor, start the car! Were leaving!
Hold on, Gillian, Victor called out, already halfeating a dumpling and spreading sausage on a slice of bread. Where are we going at this hour? Lets have a drink, snack. The dumplings are fine. Emilys right. Your tongue is your enemy.
Oh, so youre siding with her? Traitor! Gillian wailed, clutching her chest theatrically. Im having a fit!
Pills are in the bag, Mum, Simon said wearily, also munching dumplings. Sit down, calm down. Emilys not to blame. Ive seen you needle her, thought it was teasing, but it wasnt.
Gillian lingered a moment, hoping for a comforting hand, but the family ate, the wife sopped up bread with mayo. The scene fell flat; the audience was too busy with food.
She exhaled heavily and sat back down.
Give me five pieces. And no broth, she rasped.
The meal passed in a tomblike hush, broken only by the clink of forks and the occasional slurp from Victor, who never mastered table manners.
After that, the visits grew sparse, at most once a month, and the format changed. Gillian, when she came to the cottage, now brought containers of casseroles, salads, and pies, placing them on the table without meeting Emilys eyes.
Ive prepared these, she would say, avoiding eye contact. Otherwise youd be left starving.
Emily only smiled.
Thank you, Gillian. Perfect timing. I was just about to finish a book; I have no time to cook.
She no longer spent days at the stove. Her life filled with bike rides, reading in the hammock, and long evenings by the fire with Simon. The Esterházy cake one day she baked it for herself and Simon. They devoured it straight from the tray, smeared with cream, laughing like children. It was the best cake shed ever tasted, because it contained not a gram of trying to please anyone, only freedom and love for herself.
