“My daughter-in-law can’t even make a decent cup of tea, let alone cook a proper meal,” my friend huffed as she peeled potatoes and stacked them into jars.
“Why on earth are you peeling so many potatoes and stuffing them into a three-litre jar? And why make an entire pot of stew if you live alone?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“It’s for my son. I feel sorry for him,” she sighed, wiping her forehead. “His wife can’t even brew tea properly, forget about cooking. It’s either microwaved ready meals or takeaway—always something frozen, too salty, or swimming in grease. He’s not made of iron, you know. His stomach won’t last forever. So, I’ve chopped salad, made stew, packed away potatoes in jars. At least this way, he’ll have a proper, home-cooked meal once in a while. Comes home from work, opens a jar—soup’s ready. Or he can toss the potatoes and meat in a pan. Quick, easy, and actually edible.”
Now, let me tell this story from my own perspective. Maybe then you’ll understand.
I’m not one of those meddling mothers-in-law who poke their noses into every little detail of their children’s marriages. I keep my distance. My son chose his wife, and she seems nice enough—polite, at least. But cook? She can’t. Worse, she won’t learn. Her motto: “We both work, so chores should be split equally—cooking included.” In theory, fair enough. In practice? Instant noodles, fried frozen dumplings, and sauce from a packet.
Always rushing somewhere. Eating on the go, collapsing into bed. Where’s the fire? Scrolling through Instagram? Watching TikTok? They don’t even have kids yet. Why not slow down and cook a proper dinner? Why not take care of each other?
You might wonder how I know all this if I’m not interfering. Simple—my son’s started dropping by more often. Casually, of course: “Mum, got anything to eat?” At first, I assumed he just fancied my shepherd’s pie. Then I finally asked, “Do you even eat real food at home?”
Turns out, they “cook”—sometimes. Mostly, it’s takeout. Quick, bland, and expensive. I’ve visited a couple of times, and the food was lovely… until I realised it was all restaurant delivery. Heat it up, plate it—voilà, dinner’s served.
I nearly cried. My son’s no prince, mind you—just a man working ten-hour days, coming home to a sad sausage roll. And her? If she can’t be bothered now, how’s she going to feed a child? With drive-thru burgers?
No, I won’t force my way in. I won’t play cooking instructor—if her own mother didn’t teach her, I’ve got no chance. I’d only make things awkward. What’s the point?
So, I do the next best thing. Peel potatoes, roast beef, pack it all into jars. He takes it home—actual food, ready to eat. I’ve got the time after work anyway. What else am I going to do, binge another forgettable series? Might as well make stew. It’s not heroic, not hard labour. Just a mother’s way of caring.
Maybe you’ll say I shouldn’t coddle him—he’s a grown man. But when he turns up on my doorstep, hungry and exhausted, my heart caves. I’m his mum. And I’ll never understand these modern women. Cooking isn’t humiliation, isn’t drudgery. It’s love—plain, warm, everyday.
Then again, maybe I’m just getting old. Falling behind in this brave new world where Deliveroo is closer than the saucepan.
