Porridge Instead of Truffles
I was standing by the cooker, watching nervously as the sauce Id spent two hours making started to split in the pan. My creamy truffle sauce, which was supposed to pour silkily over mushroom risotto, had gone all wrong. Instead of coming together nicely, the butter was floating on top and thick blobs were collecting at the bottom.
I lowered the heat and began to work in cold cubes of butter, stirring slowly in circles my hands moving of their own accord. Night was settling in outside, the street lamps on Upper Berkeley Street flickered on, and the usual October drizzle streaked down the windows of our London flat.
Ellie, will you be long? Ive been starving since two, Tom called from the doorway, hands shoved into pockets as always. He never came into the kitchen, like it was off-limits, and he wore that same look hed had for twenty-three years not quite impatient, something different I never learned to name.
Twenty minutes, I said, not turning round. The sauce is just being a pain.
Twenty minutes. Fine.
He drifted back to the lounge, plopped onto the sofa, cranked up the TV then swiftly lowered the volume almost to mute. Another one of his subtle signals. I knew them all.
The sauce eventually behaved not perfect, but close. The risotto was just right too, that tricky, sticky texture you barely manage to hit. I plated up, shaved over some black truffle Id bought off a bloke at the market for almost as much as a treat out with friends used to be, then lit a couple of candles not for any romance, but because candlelight always made food (and faces) gentler, hiding the lines of tiredness.
Tom sat down, picked up his fork, and stared at the plate for ages.
Risotto again, he said, at last.
You did say something with mushrooms.
I said mushrooms, not risotto. I just had risotto last week at Jamies place. That was done by an actual chef you know, a proper professional. Hard to compare.
I sat across from him, picking up my own fork.
Just try it, I said.
He took a bite, chewing slowly, as though he were running laboratory tests on it.
Rice is a bit overcooked.
Its al dente, I replied tightly, the way its supposed to be.
Well, thats your opinion. Fine.
We ate in silence. I watched the flames flicker. He stared into his food with that same indecipherable look. Outside, London rumbled on, uncaring, not knowing about risotto at all.
Sauce is a bit heavy, he tossed in as the plate was nearly clear.
I didnt say anything.
Want to know why I always tell you this stuff? Because Im honest. You want to improve as a cook, not just get a pat on the back.
I didnt ask, I said.
Your loss.
Then he was off to watch football while I cleared the plates, washed up, and scraped the remains of that truffle sauce the one that cost as much as posh perfume and had been made and remade three times to get the consistency right. Id poured over techniques in a French cookbook I bought at a class for over a hundred quid, and carted the truffle across town in a container hoping the sauce wouldnt split in transit.
A bit heavy.
I gripped the edge of the sink, watched the water spiral away, then dried my hands, flicked off the kitchen light, and went to bed.
Just another ordinary evening.
***
Toms mum, Margaret, came round that Saturday at three. She always called ahead, gave me forty minutes to tidy the lounge and bake something for tea. The type who spotted messes but never mentioned them, just let their gaze linger on the windowsill a fraction too long.
She was seventy-eight. Small and wiry, with a straight back any thirty-year-old would envy. Shed been alone in her flat in Islington since her husband died six years ago, refusing Toms endless pleas to move in with us. Id never tried to persuade her. We both always knew that, and never discussed it.
That day, I noticed she looked paler than usual when I opened the door.
Come on through, Margaret, I said. I baked a walnut cake.
Thank you, Ellie. Is Tom at home?
Hes gone to see Jamie. Said hed be back this evening.
She nodded and, to my surprise, went to the kitchen instead of her usual chair in the lounge. I poured the tea, sliced the cake. We sat at the table, facing one another.
How are you feeling? I asked.
Fine. A bit of blood pressure, nothing serious.
She took a slice of cake, broke off a tiny piece and tasted it.
Lovely, she said, and she sounded so warm and genuine that my throat tightened.
Silence for a while. She sipped her tea, gazing out at the wind tossing the trees bare by Octobers end.
Ellie, can I ask you something? Dont take it the wrong way.
Ill try.
She looked at me, long and quietly.
Do you remember you were a designer?
I honestly hadnt expected that.
Of course I do.
A good designer?
They said so, yes.
I know you were. I saw your work. That flat near Regents Park, the one you did for that doctor family I visited once. It was beautiful. I remember thinking: heres someone who has a gift for space.
I looked back at her.
Why bring this up, Margaret?
She put her teacup down, so gently the kind of carefulness that comes from a lifetime of needing to be careful, where one extra noise or movement just wasnt allowed.
Because Im ashamed, she said softly.
I didn’t know how to reply. Margaret never spoke like this; she was from that silent generation.
I should have said it sooner. Years ago, maybe ten years ago when you quit work. But I kept out. Thought it was none of my business. Thought maybe you wanted it this way. Maybe you needed to.
She looked at her hands, lined but elegant.
Tom doesnt like fancy food, she said.
I blinked. I honestly thought I misheard.
Sorry?
He never has. His stomachs delicate even as a young man, the GP told him to stick to the basics: porridge, stews, plain boiled meat. His all-time favourite is mince and mash simple mince and creamy mash. Always has been. Could eat it every single day.
The kitchen fell eerily quiet. Even the fridges distant hum faded away.
Then why I began, my voice sounding not my own.
Whyd he ask for duck or truffles and lecture you about your sauce? she finished for me. I know.
Margaret met my eyes. What I saw in hers made me feel oddly cold. Not anger. Not even pity. Something heavier, older.
Because he liked the drama. Watching you trying so hard. Spending your money, time, energy and then hanging on his every word. He liked telling you it wasnt good enough. Made him feel important.
I slowly put down my cup.
Do you realise what youre saying?
I do. I thought it over before coming round. I absolutely do.
And you said nothing for ten years.
I said nothing for thirty-eight, Ellie. Since my Nick started doing the same thing to me.
Nick. Nick Stevens, her husband, Toms dad. I barely knew him; he died the year after Tom and I married. I remembered a big, loud man with impeccable table manners in company.
He was a foodie, Margaret said, bitterness neatly disguised in her calm voice. So I cooked for him. Tried my best. Still heard the sauce was too heavy, or the beef too dry. Until one day I saw him at his mothers up in Yorkshire, eating porridge. Just porridge, butter, bread. Three bowls, and he smiled. Didnt complain. Just ate and was happy.
I sat, listening. A light drizzle began outside.
I understood then. But I never left. Back then you just, well, didnt. And Tom watched all this growing up saw how it worked. Learned how this could keep someone in line. So he picked it up and used it.
On purpose, I said. It wasnt a question, not any more.
I doubt he sits down, rubs his hands together and thinks, Time to put my wife in her place. People dont work like that, Ellie. They live what theyve been shown. Being right and being needed, even at someone elses expense.
I got up not to go anywhere, just because it suddenly hurt to sit still. I stared out at the soaked street, the passersby with umbrellas.
Ten years.
Ten years of cooking classes. Starters, then advanced, then the French and Italian courses. Reading books, browsing videos, emailing chefs online. Shopping at Borough Market for the best mushrooms. Pairing wines. Waking up in the night, realising how to fix a sauce.
Id thought this was my next career. My calling after design.
And all the while, inside, he just ate mince and mash.
So why tell me this now? I asked, still facing the rain.
Because Im old. Margaret shrugged. And youre still young. Fifty-two isnt old, Ellie. Not at all, its nearly a new beginning.
When I turned, she looked at me directly. No pity and that was the crucial thing.
And because Im partially to blame, she said, quieter now. Not intentionally, but I raised him. Didnt teach different. Lived the only way I knew and he saw it as normal. Thats on me. This is the least I can give you: the truth.
I came back to the table, picked up my cold tea.
He wont change, she said. Its your choice what to do. But now you know.
We finished our tea quietly. She got ready to go, and I helped fasten her coat her fingers struggled on the buttons these days.
The walnut cake was lovely, she said at the door.
Thank you.
So simple. Homey. The nicest cake youve ever baked me.
She left. I stood in the hallway for ages, staring at Toms jackets on the peg.
***
The next two weeks, I kept on cooking the same way out of habit. Duck terrine, lobster bisque that took a whole trip to Knightsbridge, fancy Japanese desserts learned on a spring course.
Tom ate, always found something to critique. I listened, silent.
But something inside me shifted. Like a sheet of glass had gone up between me and everything happening. I saw myself from outside: at the hob, grating lemon, adding saffron, carrying the plate and waiting. Always waiting. Hed pick up his fork, and just for a second, before the first word, I saw the face he made.
Pleasure.
Not from the food from the moment before criticism, when hed catch that flicker in me, that tiniest of winces. The same flicker I now finally saw clearly. Almost childlike, right before pulling a string.
My designer days came back into focus. Arriving at a space, seeing it whole, ready, just waiting for me. Hearing not just what clients said, but what they truly wanted. That joy when they walked into their new room and paused, properly seeing it.
Id had my own studio once, sharing a little office off Great Portland Street with two other designers. We drank terrible office coffee, argued about paint swatches and fabrics late into the night.
Tom had said it wasnt real work. Id need to choose: home or running around construction sites. He earned enough for us both why bother? My clients were difficult, hed say. It was better for my nerves to step back.
So I chose family. I was forty-two. I thought thered be time to return.
But somehow, ten years slipped by.
I messaged Kate Wilkinson, an old work-mate who still ran a small design studio. Wed stayed in touch on birthdays.
Hi Kate. Been ages. Do you fancy meeting up?
She replied in thirty minutes.
Ellie! Id love that how about tomorrow?
***
We met at her usual spot off Marylebone High Street. Kate looked the same but with a chic short haircut, grey strands shining now instead of covered up. Suited her.
You look well, she said.
Youre a terrible liar, I answered.
She laughed. Alright, you look tired. But good tired.
We ordered coffee. I hesitated, staring out the window.
Kate, have you got any work? I blurted. For me, I mean.
She studied me.
Are you serious?
Deadly.
Youve had a ten-year break.
I know. I dont think Ive forgotten, though.
She twirled her cup.
Im juggling three jobs. Ones a country house we could use an extra pair of hands. But honestly, youll be the junior at first; things have changed: the software, the styles, even the clients. You okay with that?
I am.
And what would you want to be paid?
Whatever you think is right, to start.
She considered me. Whatever she saw, it was enough.
Come in Monday, lets see how you get on.
So I did. Nine till six or seven, every day for three weeks. Re-learnt software, remembered old skills, made silly mistakes, got cross with myself. Slowly though, it all came back, like remembering how to swim.
At home, I started making porridge.
The first time, it was almost funny I got back late, knackered, all I wanted was bed. Opened the fridge: nothing but ingredients for some overcomplicated dinner. Shut it, opened the cupboard, and saw oats. Tin of stewed beef, bit of butter in the fridge.
I made a pan of porridge, mixed in the beef and butter. Plonked it on the table, called Tom through.
He stared like I was speaking Klingon.
Whats this?
Porridge and beef.
Obviously, but are you alright?
Im just tired. Ill cook something else tomorrow.
He sat down and ate, silently. Not a peep of criticism. Finished his plate.
I watched him, thinking of Margarets story of Yorkshire, of three bowls of porridge, of a man who was finally home.
Tom finished eating, stood up and left. No remarks good or bad.
And that, too, was its own kind of answer.
***
The conversation happened two weeks later. I got in from work, thinking about paint choices for the country house, dropped my bag, and caught the TV noise from the lounge.
Where have you been? Tom asked, not turning. Its after eight.
At work.
Again with Kate then.
Its my job, Tom.
He turned off the telly, looked at me.
Ellie, this isnt what we agreed.
What didnt we agree on?
You disappearing all day for God-knows-what. What do we have left? The fridge is empty.
Theres eggs, some potatoes, a bit of ham. You could fry something.
He stared like Id sprouted two heads.
Youre joking, right?
No. Im telling you whats in the fridge.
Where are all your fancy bits now? The sauces, the truffles. Did you forget how to actually cook?
I set my bag down, unfastened my coat, hung it up.
Tom, can we talk properly? Like, actually talk.
About what?
About us. The last few years. What happens in this flat.
His body tensed; arms folded, face clouded.
What happens? I work, you stay home.
I dont stay home anymore. And Im not going to.
So thats that, is it? You just decided, no discussion.
Im trying to discuss it right now.
He walked to the window, stood, then paced back.
Youre not yourself. We had a good thing, Ellie. Normal family. You cooked, I appreciated. That was our thing our world.
Your world, Tom. Not mine.
Oh brilliant. Mums had a word, hasnt she? Knew it. Filled your head with rubbish.
I looked at him the man Id spent twenty-three years with, in a flat that was his by inheritance and never really felt like home to me. Everything here was his: the tall ceilings, the old sofa, the furniture picked out long before I ever arrived. Id never redecorated, though Id seen all its potential. I was, after all, a designer.
She just told me the truth, I said. That you love simple food. That your stomachs never coped with fancy stuff. That mince and mash is your favourite and always has been.
A moments pause.
Thats nonsense, he muttered.
You ate it last time without a single word.
I was hungry, thats all!
Tom, I said, just stop. Please. Stop for a second.
He did. Looked at me.
I dont want a fight, I said. I want honesty. Will you give it a go, living differently? Without the last ten years games?
Something flickered in his eyes something real, almost.
Differently, how?
As equals. You work, I work. Sometimes dinners simple, sometimes not no more humiliation. We both speak honestly. No traps.
Long silence.
I wasnt humiliating you, he said quietly. Im just honest. Its who I am.
Tom.
What?
Youre the honest man who pretended not to like porridge while I spent my time and money on truffles.
Silence again.
That was dishonest, I said, simply. Not angry, just stating the fact.
He didnt reply. Just retreated to the bedroom and shut the door quietly no slamming, as if that would have been too much.
I fried up some potatoes, sat alone at the kitchen table, then lingered with a cup of tea, hearing him pace in the other room.
***
The following months felt like a slow thaw not dramatic, not tears and slamming doors like in films; just a daily sloughing off of what had once kept us together.
Tom tried a variety of approaches.
First, wounded sulks. He wandered about as though heartbroken, waiting for me to comfort him. I didnt. I made plain meals: soup, chops, potatoes. Cleaned up, went to work, came back late.
Then, a brief spell of tenderness. One evening he brought home tulips (in November, so clearly from the tube station), said he missed me, suggested dinner out for a change. I agreed. Over dinner he was lively, asked about work, laughed for a moment, I wondered if things could change.
But the next day, he wanted to know why I hadnt made something special for his mates coming round. Just pasta and salad? he said.
Yes. Just pasta.
He gave me that look again the one I now knew by heart, but he didnt realise I could see.
There were rows after that proper ones. With raised voices, storming up and down, listing off every investment hed made: the flat, money, my freedom not to work, my chance to explore food. All recited like a bill I owed.
Thats not what I am, Tom, I replied, coolly, during one row. Im not a factory. Im a person people dont work like that.
He didnt get it, or he didnt want to.
Margaret started ringing me every week brief check-ins: how are you, pet? Sometimes shed simply say, Youre doing the right thing. Once, she confessed, Hes furious with me, isnt he?
A bit, I admitted.
Let him be, then. Im on your side for once never been on anyones side before. It matters.
By December, Kate gave me my first solo project a young couples flat in Chelsea. I didnt sleep for nights, not because I didnt know what to do, but because I did, and worried Id lost my touch.
Turns out, I hadnt.
When the client a thirty-something mum walked into her new living room, she stood in the doorway for half a minute, silent, before turning to me and saying, Youre a magician.
I remembered that feeling. That was the name for it.
***
By February, I realised it was over with Tom. Not from lack of trying I gave him chances, I talked, I didnt storm out, phone a solicitor, or crash at friends. Even though I was reading more about toxic relationships and identifying with every word.
But he didnt want new.
He just wanted me back as the woman by the cooker, waiting for his verdicts not a partner, but a mirror to reflect his importance.
How do you know your husband is a manipulator? I suppose when you see he needs not your happiness, or success, but your anxiety about pleasing him. Without that, hes lost.
Tom wasnt a bad man in most ways he didnt drink, hit, or run around, was good with money, perhaps even loved, in his fashion.
But living with him, slowly, almost imperceptibly, made me shrink. Fade. Forget who I was.
I filed for divorce in March.
He didnt believe it at first, then pleaded, then got angry, then pleaded again. Margaret had a word with him; Ive no idea what she said, but after that, he gave up. Not reconciled though just shut down, cold and distant.
The flat was his, as it always had been. I moved in with my friend Anna for three months, until I found a place of my own: a small two-bed in Hackney, looking out over a scruffy but cheery back lane.
I did it up myself nothing fancy, but every little detail I chose delighted me. Turns out, Id known what I wanted all along Id just stopped listening.
***
A year went by.
Its April now, Im fifty-three. Out the window of my Hackney flat, the little trees lining the street are bright with white blossom. Every morning I watch them as my coffee brews on the hob.
No fancy gadgets just decent beans in a pot, the simplest routine.
Kate made me a full partner in January. Four design projects on the go, and Im running two myself. I sleep soundly again. Sometimes, I do wake early, mind buzzing with layouts and ideas but thats good waking, not anxiety anymore.
Margaret still rings every week. The other day I took her a cake and we drank tea, talking about old times. She spoke about her marriage, the years of silence. I thought about those patterns repeating down generations until one person says stop.
She couldnt, but she helped me to. That matters.
Toms still in the old flat, according to mutual friends apparently hes throwing himself into cookery classes now. Maybe he really is. Sometimes people change when theres no one left to control.
I dont dwell on him. Sometimes, in a shop, Ill see a jar of truffle and feel a complex pang not quite grief, not quite laughter. A memory of those ten years. They dont just vanish.
But I dont live there anymore.
I met Andrew last September. He came to me as a client; his wife had died two years before breast cancer, quick. He wanted their old flat lightening up, not cold or new, just fresher: to breathe.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Fifty-four, a bridge engineer. The thought struck me: he builds bridges, I create spaces. Theres something in that.
Andrew is calm not quiet, just properly calm. He talks, looks you in the eye, laughs when somethings funny. Has no interest in seeming bigger than he is.
After our second meeting, he asked me for coffee. Then a walk, then another coffee, then a film a sweet little French one, and he actually laughed aloud, and I realised how lovely it is to sit beside someone so plainly alive.
Weve been seeing each other since, slow and steady. No rush; we both know lifes long.
He comes over on Fridays.
***
Todays a Friday.
I got home just after six, emptied the shopping bags: chicken thighs, potatoes, carrots, onion, parsley, sour cream.
Chicken thighs make a brilliant oven bake not a pie, quite, but a hearty layered thing: potatoes, chicken, onion, carrots, dollop of sour cream, all in the oven for an hour, sprinkle of parsley on top.
I make it when I want something properly homely not posh, just home.
As it baked, I changed clothes and the aroma filled the flat: onion frying, chicken warming, garlic softening. The smell of growing up at my grandmas I hadnt thought about that in decades.
At seven, the buzzer sounded.
Andrew came in, swinging a shopping bag, a bottle of wine poking out.
“Evening,” he smiled.
“Evening. Smell something good?”
He took a big sniff. “Is that potatoes?”
“Chicken bake. Needs another hour.”
“Perfect,” he said matter-of-factly, slipping off his coat. “Got us wine. Oh, and these.” He rummaged for a simple box of nutty chocolate. Supermarket own-brand, nothing fancy.
“You like these with nuts, dont you?” he said.
I took the box. “How did you remember?”
“You mentioned it in September, when we passed that bakery.”
I stood with this little box, unable to find words big enough for everything I was feeling.
“You remember things,” I managed.
“I try,” he replied, casual, not trying to impress.
We went to the kitchen. I checked the casserole; nearly there. He opened the wine, poured us each a glass, settled on a stool while I pottered.
Hows the project? he asked. The one in Soho?
Tricky client, I admitted. Wants everything fast and cheap.
Happens.
Yeah, I smiled. But itll come together. Five-metre ceilings are too special to waste.
He nodded, eyes on me as I worked.
Ellie, he said.
Mmm?
Are you happy? Not generally, but, you know right now?
I looked at him. He was asking, really asking.
“Right now?” I put down my spoon and thought for a moment. “Yes. Right now, yes.”
“Good,” he said, and said nothing more.
The casserole was ready. I pulled it out, let it settle, topped it with parsley. Set it on the table no candles, just the lamp overhead.
Andrew admired it. Looks great.
Its just an oven bake.
It smells amazing, and looks marvellous. Can’t you make anything that isnt attractive?
I laughed.
“Never tried.”
We ate. He asked for seconds, simply holding out his plate. I served him. We talked his work, his plans to visit his daughter in Manchester, my hopes for a summer holiday, maybe a drive up to Scotland. He liked the idea. “Nice and peaceful.”
Later, we had tea, eating the cheap nut chocolates.
Outside, London hummed through April, wet pavement shining, blossom trembling on the wind.
And I thought: this is it. Not a celebration, not an event. Just a Friday night a living, gentle person beside me, food that reminds me of childhood, not waiting for anyones verdict.
Sometimes I think about those years the truffles, the bisques, the hopeless sauces. How many tears for a word like “heavy”. I feel sad for the time, for the woman I was but Ive stopped indulging that sadness for long.
“Self-esteem,” I once read, as if its something fixed, like eye colour. Its not. Its something built and rebuilt, sometimes from scratch at fifty-two, learning new skills in Kates office, getting cross but not quitting, and then finally seeing the space again.
Boundaries another buzzword, but now I get it. Its not a wall, just knowing: heres where I end, heres where you begin.
As for happiness? The recipes not complicated: do what youre good at, be with people who see you, cook what you like, dont wait for judgement.
Whatre you thinking? Andrew asked.
I looked up at him, mug in hand.
About the casserole.
He laughed. Good thing to think about.
The best, really. Want more tea?
Go on, then.
I poured him some, then myself, set the pot aside, and glanced out at the billowing white trees.
Andrew?
Mmm?
Youre never going to tell me my dinners too salty, are you?
He caught my eye, dead serious.
You didnt oversalt it, he said.
“And if I do one day?”
He considered. “I’ll say, Next time, a little less salt, and eat the lot anyway.
I nodded. Thats a very good answer.
I try, he said, snatching the last chocolate. You mind if I have the last one?
All yours.
Outside, the blossom drifted, and London murmured on, unconcerned about dinners, sauces, the years lost or those ahead. The city just lived. And so did I. The kitchen smelt of home, not performance; and a single plant on the windowsill caught the evening light because, simply, I liked its colour.
So thats life now.
I just like it that way.
