“My daughter-in-law can’t even make a proper cup of tea. And her cooking—it’s just dreadful.” The mother-in-law peeled potatoes, stacking them neatly into jars.
“Why are you peeling so many potatoes and stuffing them into three-litre jars?” I asked my friend, frowning. “And why do you need an entire pot of beef stew if you live alone?”
“It’s all for my son,” she sighed, wiping her brow. “I feel sorry for him. His wife can’t even brew tea right, let alone cook. It’s always frozen meals microwaved or takeaway—greasy, oversalted, processed. He’s not made of iron, you know. His stomach won’t last forever. So here I am—chopped salad, made stew, packed potatoes in jars. At least he’ll have something proper, something homemade. He comes home from work, opens a jar—soup’s ready. Or he can toss meat and potatoes in a pan. Quick, wholesome.”
Now, let me tell this story from my own perspective. Maybe then you’ll understand.
I’m not the kind of mother-in-law who pokes into every corner of her child’s marriage. I don’t interfere. My son chose his wife. She seems polite enough. But—she can’t cook. Worse, she doesn’t *want* to learn. Her stance? *We both work, so chores should be equal. We cook together.* In theory, fair enough. But in reality? Instant noodles, fried dumplings, sauces straight from the jar.
Always rushing. Eat fast, sleep fast. What’s the hurry? Instagram? TikTok? They don’t even have children! Why not make a proper dinner? Why not care for each other?
You might ask—how do I know all this if I don’t interfere? Well, here’s how. My son started dropping by more often. Casually, always the same: *Mum, got anything to eat?* At first, I thought he just fancied my beef stew. Then I asked him outright—*Do you even eat properly at home?*
And he told me. Sure, they *cook*. Sometimes. But mostly, it’s takeaway. Fast, bland, expensive. I’ve visited them a few times—everything tasted lovely, looked nice on the plate. Turned out? Restaurant delivery. Heat it up, serve it—dinner done.
I nearly cried. He’s no prince, my boy. Just a man working ten-hour days, coming home to a sausage roll. And *her*? If she’s to be a mother one day, will she feed their child nothing but cardboard burgers?
No, I won’t force my way in. I won’t play cooking instructor—it’s too late. If her own mother didn’t teach her, what chance do I have? I’d only sour things. What’s the point?
So I do this instead. Peel potatoes, slow-cook meat, pack meals into jars. He takes them home—at least he eats *something* real. I’ve got time after work. What else should I do, binge Netflix? Might as well make stew. It’s not heroic. Not like working down a mine. Just care. Mother’s care.
Maybe you’ll say I shouldn’t help like this. That he’s grown. But when he stands at my door, tired and hungry—my heart can’t take it. I’m his *mother*. And I’ll never understand these modern women. Cooking isn’t servitude. It isn’t punishment. It’s *love*. Simple, warm, everyday.
Or maybe I’m just getting old. Falling behind in a world where Deliveroo is closer than the cookpot.
