“Hello, Mum,” said Emily timidly as she stepped over the threshold of her in-laws house. “I hope Im not interrupting anything?”
“What nonsense, Emily dear!” replied Margaret warmly. “Im so pleased youve come. Are you hungry?”
“And you?” Emily asked in return.
“A bit,” Margaret chuckled. “If you dont mind, lets have lunch together.”
“Alright,” Emily nodded. “But well eat my food. Is that all right?”
“What?” Margaret froze.
“Please dont be surprised, but Ive brought you a jar of my homemade beef stew,” Emily explained.
“What on earth do you mean, Emily?!” Margaret was even more astonished. “Do you think Ive nothing to feed you?”
“No, no, you misunderstand. Let me explain,” Emily fumbled, pulling out a large jar filled with a rich, dark stew. “I really need you to taste this, Margaret, and tell me whats missing in mine.”
“Why?”
“Because your James keeps telling me your stew tastes better than mine.”
“James says that?” Margaret frowned in disbelief.
“Yes. Ive tried making his favourite stew at least ten times, but hes never satisfied. He insists yours is superior. I want to know what Im doing wrong.”
“But darling, why bother?” Margaret pressed.
“Well, I just want to please him,” Emily said pleadingly.
“Good heavens,” Margaret sighed with a wry smile. “Wouldnt it be easier to give him a proper telling-off?”
“A telling-off?” Emily was taken aback.
“Yes. Have a blazing row. Tell him if he dares say it again, youll stop cooking for him altogether.”
“But Mum!” Emily gasped. “What if he gets upset? Besides he does praise my other dishes. Its only the stew he complains about.”
“The little toerag,” Margaret muttered.
“Why call him that?!” Emily protested. “Hes your son!”
“Because hes acting like a spoiled little toerag!” Margaret repeated. “He gets it from his father, my husband. Hell make the same remark now and thenjust to wind me up.”
“What remark?”
“That his mothers cooking is better. But he says it as a joke, to tease me. Maybe James is just joking badly?”
“No, hes serious. Please, Margaret, taste my stew. I beg you. Whats wrong with it?”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Margaret groaned. “Fine, lets go to the kitchen.”
Five minutes later, Margaret was sampling the stew.
“Absolutely delicious!” she exclaimed after a few spoonfuls. “Better than mine.”
“Youre just saying that to make me feel better, arent you?” Emily gave her a doubtful look.
“No, truly, Emily, its wonderful! Absolutely top-notch!”
“Even so, if its not too much trouble, could you teach me to make it your way?”
“Emily, dont you dare!” Margaret cried. “Yours is better. If you dont believe me, let me serve you some of mine from yesterday.”
A moment later, it was Emilys turn to taste.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“Its nice,” Emily replied politely.
“Exactly. Just nice. But yours is divine. That James of ours is getting far too picky.”
“No” Emily protested. “Hes not. Maybe your stew just tastes more familiar to him, so he prefers it.”
“Is that so?” Margaret suddenly gave Emily a conspiratorial look. “Then Ill give you a jar of mine to take home. Serve it to James tonight and say we made it together. Let him judge. Then well see whats really going on in our stew connoisseurs head.”
That evening, James walked in from work and immediately asked, “Emily, is it true you went to Mums today?”
“How did you know?” Emily blinked.
“She rang me. Said she taught you to make stew and that you brought some home.”
“Mhm,” Emily nodded. “I did.”
“Brilliant!” James grinned. “Ill wash up, thenbring on Mums stew!”
But after the first spoonful, a strange look crossed his face.
“Did Mum really make this?” he asked carefully.
“Of course,” Emily replied, feigning surprise.
“And you ate it too?”
“Yes,” she shrugged. “I liked it. Ill start making it this way now.”
“Emily, dont!” James blurted in alarm.
“Dont what?” Her face fell.
“Dont change a thing. Keep cooking it your way.”
“But why?” Emily stared.
“Because yours” He pushed the bowl aside, “is actually better. And honestly, Im not that hungry. Lets just have tea and sandwiches.”
Baffled, Emily watched him leave before grabbing a spoon to taste the stew herself. Her face twisted in disgust.
She snatched up the phone and dialled Margaret.
“Margaret,” she whispered, “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 soured cream to it. Well? Did he try it?”
“Yes”
“And?”
“Not exactly impressed”
“Not impressed?!” Margaret burst out laughing. “So his taste buds do work! Let him dare criticise your cooking againIll show him Mums stew!”
