“I could always whack you with a spoon,” Julia muttered under her breath.
“What? You made dumplings?” Her mother-in-law, Margaret, sniffed dismissively. “Might as well serve them with activated charcoal. At least we wont poison ourselves too badly.”
“Oh, come off it, Maggie. Give them a try first. Maybe the lass actually did it right for once,” James, Julias father-in-law, defended her.
The “lass” was well into her forties. Silently, Julia set the table, spooning portions onto each plate. She was used to Margarets snide remarksthe playful tone laced with bitterness, as if her title as the familys reigning dumpling queen had been stolen.
“Right. And Ill be the one nursing you later,” Margaret grumbled, eyeing her plate like it had personally offended her. She prodded a dumpling with her fork, lips curling.
“Already looks overcooked. Doughs like glue. And you shouldve added turmericmakes them look nicer.”
James, meanwhile, tucked in eagerly. “Oh, give over, woman! Were eating them, not framing them! Bloody good, these.” He spoke through a full mouth, grinning at Julia.
She managed a small smile, but Margarets face darkened.
“Really? Julia burns toast, and now suddenly shes a master chef?” Margaret scoffed. “James, pity compliments are bad form.”
“Try one yourself!” he insisted. “The broths practically bursting!”
Reluctantly, Margaret split a dumpling with her fork, her expression sour, as if inspecting roadkill. She finally took a bite, chewing slowly, her frown deepening.
“Filling should be half chickenmore economical. Too much salt. Doughs blandwatery, you can tell. The shop down the road does better.”
“Christ, Maggie, who cares whats in it? Tastes grand!” James waved her off.
“No, it doesnt!” she snapped. “Youve just forgotten what proper dumplings taste like. This is slop!”
Julia watched the bickering, her appetite gone. She hadnt expected applause, but this?
The argument dragged on another five minutes before James threw up his hands. Then, abruptly, Margaret stood.
“Were off. Loads to do. The washing machines on a timernearly done. Clothesll stink if theyre not hung.”
“The washing machine?” James blinked. “Did you even set it?”
“Your memorys going. Among other things,” Margaret hissed on her way out.
With a helpless shrug at Julia, James trailed after her.
When the door shut, Julia turned to her husband, Tom, who looked just as bewildered.
“She kicked off over dumplings?” Julia whispered.
“You know how she is about cooking,” Tom sighed.
“Brilliant. So I shouldve deliberately ruined them to spare her ego?” Julia crossed her arms, torn between laughter and fury.
Margaret had always treated Tom and James as her property. Julia had fought for every inchfirst when Tom stopped rushing to her midnight calls, then when they planned a quiet New Years alone, then when they didnt invite her to their Edinburgh trip.
The kitchen was Margarets last stronghold. Now Julia had dared breach it.
Julia had never loved cooking. Her mother hadnt taught her, and shed never cared to learn.
“Youll have plenty of time for pots and pans later,” her mum used to say. “Eat to live, not live to eat.”
That had been Julias mantra. Ready meals, pasta, basic saladsgood enough. Occasionally, steamed chicken. A cottage pie was her crowning achievement.
Shed never thought much of it until Tom started nagging. Before marriage, he hadnt cared. After?
“Kiev cutlet juicy, herby, dripping with butter” hed muse as Julia served frozen nuggets.
The root of it? His mother adored cookinghours at the stove, feasts fit for kings. Julia wasnt signing up for that.
“Right. Weve got borscht. Want it fried? Make it yourself or shut up. Im not your paid chefIll spoon you one if you keep whinging,” shed finally snapped.
Tom had quieted. Margaret hadnt.
“She cant even make porridgejust those instant packets,” Margaret would titter to relatives.
Julia avoided gatherings when she could. But cutting ties entirely wasnt an option.
Tom had mostly let goexcept for dumplings. Every time she served shop-bought ones: “Wish we had Mums.”
Finally, Julia cracked.
“Fine. Youll get homemade.”
Shed enlisted her mothers help. Theyd laughed, reminisced, watched filmsJulia had felt victorious. Exhausted, but proud.
The tasting was postponed to the next daycoincidentally, when James and Margaret visited.
And now this. A silent dumpling war.
Julia wouldve moved on, but Margaret had gone radio silent. No calls. No answers.
“Tom, ring your mum. I tried about the cottageno answer. What if somethings wrong?”
He returned grim-faced. “She says she doesnt need our help.”
“What?”
“Exactly. Ill manage.”
“Well, less baggage for the horse,” Julia muttered.
But she was uneasy. Margaret refusing help? Unprecedented.
The next day, Julia called James.
“Whereve you been? We agreed on Sunday for the cottage, and now Margaret”
“Ah, love,” James sighed. “Shes lost the plot. Wont speak to me. Cooks just for herself. Says if you liked Julias cooking so much, go live there. Bloody madness.”
Julia snorted. Ridiculous.
“Sorry this blew up. If youre desperate, pop round. Ill feed you.”
“Youre a saint, Julia,” James chuckled. “Dont fret. Shell get over it. High time she learned theres two women in this family, not just her.”
Julia exhaled. James, exiled over dumplings. Pathetic, really.
Still, Margarets silence was a reprieve. It wouldnt last. But for now? Peace.
And time to plan her next culinary “offence.”
