“Hello, Mum,” Tilly said timidly, stepping over the threshold of her in-laws’ flat. “I hope Im not interrupting anything?”
“Oh, Tilly dear, not at all!” Margaret beamed. “Im so pleased youve come. Are you hungry?”
“Are you?” Tilly asked in return.
“A little,” Margaret chuckled. “Fancy having lunch together?”
“Lovely,” Tilly nodded. “But only if we eat my food. Alright?”
“What?” Margaret froze.
“Dont be cross, but Ive brought you a jar of my homemade beef stew,” Tilly explained.
“What on earth, Tilly?!” Margarets eyebrows shot up. “Do you think I dont have food to offer?”
“No, no, youve got the wrong end of the stick,” Tilly fussed, pulling a large jar of rich, reddish stew from her bag. “I really need you to taste this, Margaret, and tell me whats missing.”
“Why?”
“Because your Oliver keeps saying your stew tastes better than mine.”
“Oliver says that?” Margaret squinted skeptically.
“Yes. Ive tried making his favourite at least ten times, but hes never satisfied. Claims yours is superior. I just want to know what Im doing wrong.”
“But darling, why bother?” Margaret sighed.
“Well, I want to please him,” Tilly said with a pitiful pout.
“Good grief,” Margaret gave a wry smile. “Wouldnt it be easier to just have a proper row about it?”
“A row?” Tilly blinked.
“Absolutely. A full-blown tantrum. Tell him if he says it again, hell be making his own dinners from now on.”
“You cant be serious!” Tilly gasped. “What if he gets upset? Besides… he does like my other cooking. Just not the stew.”
“That little toad,” Margaret muttered.
“Why would you call him that?!” Tilly bristled. “Hes your son!”
“Because hes acting like a spoiled little toad!” Margaret huffed. “Takes after his father, my husband. Hell say the same thing now and thenjust to wind me up, mind you.”
“Say what?”
“That his mothers cooking is better. But he only does it for a laugh. Maybe Olivers just got a terrible sense of humour?”
“No, hes deadly serious. Please, Margaret, just try my stew. Im begging you. Whats missing?”
“Oh, for heavens sake,” Margaret sighed. “Fine, lets go to the kitchen.”
Five minutes later, Margaret was sampling Tillys stew.
“Absolute perfection!” she exclaimed after a few spoonfuls. “Miles better than mine.”
“Youre just saying that to be nice,” Tilly said skeptically.
“No, really, Tilly, its divine! Absolutely top-notch!”
“Even so, could you teach me your way of making it?”
“Tilly, dont you dare!” Margaret laughed. “Yours is already superior. If you dont believe me, Ill give you some of minemade it just yesterday.”
A moment later, it was Tillys turn to taste.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“Its… nice,” Tilly said politely.
“Exactly. Just nice. Yours is heavenly. That Olivers got far too used to good things.”
“No, he hasnt,” Tilly protested. “Maybe hes just nostalgic for your version. Thats why he prefers it.”
“Is that so?” Margaret suddenly gave a sly look. “Right, Ill give you a jar of mine to take home. Serve it tonight and tell him we made it together. Lets see what our stew connoisseur really thinks.”
That evening, Oliver walked in from work and immediately asked, “Tilly, did you really go round Mums today?”
“How did you know?” Tilly blinked.
“She rang me. Said she taught you to make her stew and you brought some home.”
“Mm-hmm,” Tilly nodded. “I did.”
“Brilliant!” Oliver grinned. “Ill wash up, thencant wait for Mums stew.”
But after the first spoonful, his face twisted oddly.
“Er… Mum really made this?” he asked cautiously.
“Of course,” Tilly said, feigning innocence.
“And you ate it too?”
“Yes,” she shrugged. “Loved it. Gonna start making it like this now.”
“Tilly, dont!” Oliver looked genuinely alarmed.
“Why not?” Her face fell.
“Just… dont. Stick to your usual way.”
“But why?”
“Because yours is…” He pushed the bowl away. “Actually, yours is better. And, you know, Im not that hungry. Fancy just tea and toast instead?”
Baffled, Tilly shrugged.
Once Oliver had left the kitchen, she quickly grabbed his spoon, took a biteand nearly gagged.
She snatched up her phone and dialled Margaret in a hushed voice. “Margaret, I dont understand. I just tried your stew, and its… its…”
“I know,” Margaret said calmly. “Probably inedible.”
“But why? It was fine earlier!”
“I added sour milk. Did he try it?”
“Uh… yes.”
“And?”
“Not… a fan.”
“Not a fan?!” Margaret cackled. “Well, at least his taste buds work. And if he ever dares criticise your cooking again, Ill show him Mums stew!”
