Mother-in-Law’s Legendary Homemade Cutlets

Mother-in-Laws Rissoles

For three and a half years, Oliver and Emily had shared their lives together, but in all that time Emily had only visited her mother-in-laws house perhaps four times, and each of those had been on special occasions, never staying long before whisking back into the city, back home.

Now, though, Oliver was animated. His mother had rung for the third time in a single week, lamenting how she missed them, how Dad had pulled his back fixing the shed roof, how the vegetable patch was overrun, and how there wasnt the strength to sort it

Oliver was a dutiful son, always phoning his mother every Sunday, as punctual as a metronome, nodding on the line, even if she was pontificating about something that, deep down, he completely disagreed with. And now, as he sat at dinner, chewing pasta and sausage, he peered at his wife with a pleading expression, as though hoping she would read his mind.

“Em,” he murmured, pushing his plate aside, folding his hands as if in silent prayer, “Mum rang again. Says we’ve probably forgotten what she looks like. Lets go over this weekend? Just for a couple of days. Please?”

“Ol, I’ve got my hair appointment on Saturday,” Emily ventured, knowing in her bones how feeble her protest sounded.

“Can’t you reschedule?” waved Oliver, in that tone that made it sound like the most trivial thing imaginable. “You know what shes like if she gets upset. Shes promised to do her rissoles and bake pies. She says she misses us.”

“And your dad?” Emily asked, more out of politeness than concern, her relationship with the father-in-law strictly neutral.

“Hell be fine, nothing ever does for him,” shrugged Oliver. “Always something wrong. Anyway, Ive decided. Were going. Friday evening there, home Sunday night. Ill call Mum and let her know.”

Emily sighed. By now shed learned not to argue whenever Oliver had decided somethingit was about as useful as cajoling the cat to stay off the curtains.

So, on Friday evening, they loaded the boot with a change of clothes and a bag of gifts. Oliver had bought his mother a fluffy throw and a bottle of whisky for his father. Getting to the little village took just over two hours, provided the motorway behaved.

During the drive, Emily stared out as hedgerows and forlorn branches flitted by, peering at the sooty light of roadside cafés with daft names, listening as Oliver sang along to the radio, and tried to convince herself things would be fine. Three days wasnt much. His mum was, after all, a kindly soul.

They arrived in darkness. The house perched at the tail end of the lane, illuminated by the single lamp atop the lamppost. Oliver swung onto the gravel drive, engine ticking, and as if on cue the porch light flickered on, the door flung wide, and there spilled out Mrs Kathleen Barnestiny, round, clad in a dazzlingly floral apron, her smile so wide it seemed in danger of splitting her face in two.

“Ollie!” she shrieked, her voice carrying down the sleepy lane, hurrying towards her son the moment he unlatched the door. “Thought youd never come! Ive been cooking and baking since dawn, you wouldnt believe! Em, my dear girl, hurry in, dont stand shivering!”

Emily slid out, tugged her coat, arranged a dutiful smile, and permitted herself to be enfolded in a diaphanous hug. Mrs Barnes smelt unmistakably of frying onions and something thick and saccharine that tickled at Emilys nostrils.

Inside was muggy, heavy with food, the hiss and pop of frying from the kitchen. The big rooms table was already laden: slices of Tesco salami, bread, a bowl of pickled onions, a glass jar of home-steeped raspberry cordial, and half a loaf of crusty brown bread. Geoffrey Barnes, Olivers father, sat at the telly watching the news, but he stood and approached, a nerve-creased current visible beneath the calm: the traffic, the lateness, the not knowing.

“Well, you made it,” he said, shaking Olivers hand and nodding to Emily. “Evening, love. Do come in, coats off, well have supper soon.”

“Ive just finished the rissoles,” Mrs Barnes announced from the kitchen, bustling about, fiddling with the plates. “Potatoes, onions, plenty of gravy. Ollie, my love, you still adore my rissoles, dont you?”

“Course, Mum, you know I do,” Oliver grinned, already nosing into the saucepans and causing Mrs Barnes no end of delight.

Emily peeled off her coat in the hallway and trotted after him. The kitchen was small and crammed, the sort of place where “cosy” meant every surface groaned under the weight of jars, spice tubs, cloths, packets, and a battalion of bowls.

“Take a seat, Em, darling, get your breath back after that journey,” beamed Mrs Barnes, pulling out a chair and swiping it with the hem of her apron. “Let me just finish up, wont be a tick.”

She whirled about, snatched up a plate, then placed it down again, flung open the ovenfragrant roasted meat streaming forthand Emily involuntarily swallowed. Theyd not really eaten, just sipped coffee from a flask on the way.

And then Emily saw it.

Mrs Barnes stood at the counter, a bowl brimming with raw mince before her. A pale-pink-grey mass, out of which shed sculpted a couple dozen perfectly plump rissoles, lined up in neat formation and dusted with breadcrumbs on a wooden board. Kathleen deftly grabbed another dollop of mince, rolled it into a ball, flattened it with a practiced slap, and thenusing the same, mince-slicked handshe absent-mindedly reached under her left arm.

It wasnt a brief scratch, the sort of distracted motion one might forgive, but a thorough rummage, fingers scrunched deep, relief etched on her face as she worked at whatever itched her. Then, that same hand, unwashed and unwiped, returned to the bowl, shaping the next rissole.

A wave of nausea crashed over Emily.

She stared at that handjust an ordinary womans hand, nails trimmed short, wedding ring pinching a swollen finger, lattice of tiny lines upon the skinunable to look away. Just now it had been under an arm. Now it was back in the mince. The very mince destined for those rissoles.

Mrs Barnes had always sent them freezer bags chock-full of rissoles, which Oliver and Emily would fry up at home, eat, and compliment. Emily had even told her mother-in-law over the phone, sincerely, that her rissoles were “magic.” Which was truethey did taste extraordinary.

“Mum,” called Oliver from the lounge, “got any tea? Were frozen through from the journey.”

“Coming, coming!” Mrs Barnes trilled, rolling out another rissole, “Last few, then its suppers on!”

She grabbed more mince, and Emily fancied she saw faint, shadowy smears on the board where her mother-in-laws fingers touched the wood. Or was she imagining it? She blinked, and the image snapped back to normalrissole mix, the board, Mrs Barnes hands pinching and rolling.

“Mrs Barnes,” Emily ventured tentatively, “can I help at all? I could finish these, if you want to get the tea started.”

“Oh love, youre a guest, dont be daft!” Mrs Barnes protested, flapping her floury hands, sending a fresh ripple of shivers through Emily. “You rest after that drive, nearly done!”

And to prove the point, she seized the last lump of mince, shaped it into the final rissole, laid it amongst its siblings, then, with a satisfied nod, rinsed her hands under the tap (a swift two seconds; no soap, just a rinse), flicked off the droplets, and wiped them on her apron.

Emily watched, recoiling.

She desperately tried to talk herself down. So what? She just scratched herself, for heavens sake. Her own grandmaGod rest herused to press dough, then flick flour from her fringe mid-bake, and nobody ever keeling over dead. Maybe she was just too squeamish.

But the image lingered in her mind: Hand, armpit, hand, mince.

Dinner was in the front room, beneath a plastic tablecloth littered with daisies and forget-me-nots. Mrs Barnes brought in a frying pan heaped with steaming rissolesgolden, crispy, nothing to betray their secret horror. A bowl of buttery mash, sliced tomatoes, cucumber, bread, pickles, cordial.

“Tuck in, dears,” urged Mrs Barnes, shoving the rissole platter towards Emily. “These here, Em, the brownest. I made them specially for you.”

The rissoles couldve graced a magazinethey were perfect. Emily stared at them as if they might twitch. Oliver heaped his plate with two, slopped on mash, hacked off some cucumber, and dug in with relish.

“Mmmm, Mum,” he managed through a mouthful. “Proper good. As ever.”

“Well, thank heavens,” Mrs Barnes beamed, taking her seat, splitting her own rissole open, breaking bread for herself. “I was worried Id not put enough salt or onion.”

“Just right,” Oliver said through his second. “You always were a marvellous cook.”

Geoffrey was content to eat in silence, nodding now and then, his longest ever speech being an explanation of oil changes in a Peugeot.

“Emily, not hungry?” Mrs Barnes peered anxiously at Emilys barely disturbed plate. “Did I add too much salt?”

“No, no,” Emily replied too quickly, fearing the avalanche of guilt if she didnt at least make an effort. “Its justcar rides unsettle me. My stomach, you know. Ill just nibble, I promise.”

She took up her fork, broke off a sliver from the crispiest edge, and raised it, the scent of onions and meat sharp in her nostrils. But as soon as she conjured the mental picture of that mince, kneaded by a hand which minutes before had burrowed beneath an armpit, her throat closed, and she forced the mouthful down, struggling not to gag.

“Delicious,” she murmured, pushing her plate away. “Mrs Barnes, could I just have some mash and cucumber? I cant handle heavy food after travelling.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Mrs Barnes fussed, “Just the mash then, and Ill pack some rissoles for you to take homeplenty in the freezer.”

Oliver glanced at her, said nothing, forked down rissole after rissole, a man serenely undisturbed by any extraneous thoughts of hygiene.

Emily picked at the potatoes, chewed cucumber, wrapped in thoughts she couldnt banish. Millions of people ate home cooking, didnt they? No one dropped dead. It was just her… her mind replayed the image. Hand. Armpit. Hand. Mince.

Afterwards, Mrs Barnes busied herself tidying away, Oliver vanished to the shed with his dad “to look at the generator”, while Emily sat in the kitchen, now alone with her mother-in-law, who was pouring tea into a battered teapot not quite holding onto its spout.

“Dont take it the wrong way, love,” said Mrs Barnes softly, pouring hot water into mugs, “I know youre busy with lifecity, work, all thatbut my heart still aches to see if youre both alright.”

“Were well, Mrs Barnes,” Emily replied, fighting a rising tide of queasiness as she accepted the mug. “Work, the house, you knowlife, the usual.”

“Thats a comfort then.” Mrs Barnes settled opposite, her cheek pillowed in a hand, her gaze oddly focused on Emily. “You do like my rissoles, dont you? Ollie always asks I make a batch to freeze when he visits. You wont get that, not real ones, in townshop ones are full of nonsense. Ours is all fresh. I mince the meat myself. Never trust supermarket mince.”

Emily took a burning sip, nearly choking as the nausea surged. It was just normal tea, and yet all she could picture was Mrs Barnes hands, unwashed mugs. She set the cup down, beads of perspiration prickling at her forehead.

“Mrs Barnes, would you mind if I lay down? My heads splitting. Must be the journey.”

“Of course, pet, of course,” Mrs Barnes fretted. “Clean bedding in the cupboard, Ollie will help. Shout if you need anything, love.”

Emily retreated to the little guest room, shut the door, perched at the end of the bed, and felt an urge to be sick, barely making it to the lav in time. She sat there, gulping breaths, trying to steady herself.

Later, Oliver found her, huddled on the bed, pale and troubled.

“Whats up?” he asked, sitting next to her.

“Ol, Im going to tell you something but promise me you wont laugh or get cross,” Emily whispered, eyes wide.

“Go on,” Oliver frowned.

She told him. The hand, the armpit, the mince, the rissoles, the nausea, all low, as if the house itself might be listening.

Olivers face was unreadablea flicker of disbelief, then a touch of irritation.

“Look,” he said eventually, “she didnt mean anything by it. Who hasnt scratched an itch? Do you think our grannies washed their hands after every sneeze? Thats life, Em. Home cooking.”

“Ol, she didnt wash her hand,” Emilys voice trembled despite herself. “She just… went right back in. I watched. Not even a quick soap. All those frozen bags shes sentjust think!”

“So what should we do? Say something?” Olivers tone turned sharp. “Tell my mother shes unhygienic? Shed be crushed. She did all this for us!”

“Im not telling her,” Emily hid her face. “But I cant eat it again. I just cant.”

Oliver paced, running his hand through his hair, a sign he was losing patience.

“Youre overreacting,” he said finally. “Youve never scratched your head in the kitchen or tucked hair behind your ear? This isnt an operating theatre; its just a kitchen. If you’re that fussy, youll drive yourself mad.”

“I always wash my hands,” Emily muttered. “Before cooking, after anything questionable. I just think that’s basic sense.”

“Well, that makes you a star,” Oliver replied, almost angrily. “But Mums done this forever. I grew up on her food, Im perfectly healthy. Didnt you say her rissoles were the best?”

“I didnt know,” Emily looked at him squarely. “Now I do. I cant unknow.”

“Forget about it,” said Oliver, throwing up his hands. “It wasnt like she scratched her bum. You should see restaurantshair in salads, fingers in soup. You still eat out, dont you?”

“Justdont,” Emily pleaded, ready to sob or vomit again. “Talking about it doesnt help.”

“Alright,” Oliver relented, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Dont eat if you dont want. Ill say youre poorly. But keep it quiet. Mum would never understand.”

“I will,” Emily buried herself into his side. “I just want to go home.”

“Tomorrow then,” Oliver promised. “Ill say youve come down with something and we need to leave. OK?”

“OK,” she whispered, though nothing felt OK.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled TV next door, Geoffreys cough, the clatter of plates in the kitchen as Mrs Barnes tidied. Emily thought of the years gone by, all the frozen rissoles, all the praise, the times shed begged for the recipe, the genuine awe at their taste. She couldnt shake the idea that perhaps there really was a “secret ingredient” after all.

By morning, Emily felt hollow, but emerged from the room, washed in brisk water, and managed to brave the kitchen.

“Oh, Emily,” Mrs Barnes tutted, hands to her chest, “Ollie said you were poorly last nightfever, was it? Let me make you some raspberry tea, best for anything that ails.”

“Thank you, Mrs Barnes,” she replied quietly, doing her best not to look at the dish of rissoles, now covered with a muslin cloth to keep flies away. “I’m better now. Must’ve been something before we set off, maybe bad service-station food.”

“Those restaurants are ghastly,” Mrs Barnes tutted, pouring her a steaming drink and thrusting a homemade jam jar her way. “Always told Geoffbetter to eat at home, but no, you two will go eating out. You see the result.”

“Mum,” Oliver protested, “We didnt stop anywhere, just had flask coffee.”

“Well, something, then,” Mrs Barnes insisted. “Our bodies are delicate. Try the raspberry. Puts you right.”

As Emily sipped, the heat washing her insides, the thought gnawedhad Mrs Barnes washed her hands before brewing the tea? If she followed this line of worry, shed lose her mind. Either she learned to accept it, or she simply wouldn’t return.

“Mrs Barnes,” she said, setting her mug aside, “Thank you so much for having us, but we should probably head home. Oliver says well leave this morning.”

“So soon?” Mrs Barnes looked pained. “I wanted to bake for you, make some cabbage stew, Ollie loves my stew.”

“Next time, Mum,” Oliver stood, kissed her cheek. “Emilys not well. She needs proper rest. Ill come again soon, help Dad, and you can cook me whatever you like.”

Mrs Barnes sighed, her gaze bouncing between them, and in that look was something that made Emilys spine tinglea sense she knew everything. About the rissoles, the hand, the sudden “illness”.

“As you wish,” Mrs Barnes said, voice suddenly clipped. “Ill pack you both some rissoles. Stocked the freezer, enough for the week.”

Emilys face burned, but somehow she managed a “Thank you, Mrs Barnes. You’re so thoughtful.”

They packed quickly. Oliver loaded the car, while Emily said a brief goodbye to Geoffrey, who, squeezing her hand, told her, “Do get better, love. Visit when you can.” Mrs Barnes thrust the bag of rissoles into Olivers arms.

“Here you area few rissoles, some jam, and a bit of my bacon. Eat up, you two.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Oliver pecked her on the cheek, and Emily noticed, for the first time, that Mrs Barnes did not smile backshe simply nodded, spinning away into the house before they’d even started the engine.

Emily said nothing on the drive. The bag of rissoles in the boot felt almost alive, a lurking presence she could sense through the metal and foam. Oliver, too, was silent, the air between them tense and bruised.

“You can eat them,” Emily murmured at last, as they reached the city. “I wont mind. I just I cant.”

Oliver exhaled, a defeated breath, as if hed spent the journey shifting heavy boxes. “You do see that Mums figured it out?”

“What do you mean?” Emily turned to him.

“Shes not stupid. She saw you barely touched your food, then you were “ill”, and now were gone the very next morning. She knows, Em. And shes hurt. I cant blame her.”

“And you?” asked Emily sharply.

He didnt reply.

At home, Emily stepped into their kitchenclean, orderly, every surface wiped after use, chopping boards bleaching in the sink. Here, it was sanitary, things done properly, hands washed. Here, there were no rissoles shaped by hands returning straight from their own skin.

Oliver brought the bag inside, stuffed it in the freezer, closed the door.

“Youre not having them?” Emily asked.

“I am,” Oliver answered, a stubborn edge. “Theyre Mums. Been eating them all my life.”

He stalked off to the shower, leaving Emily in the kitchen. She stood at the sink, worked up a lather with the soap, and washed her hands carefully, methodically, all the way up to her elbows, almost like a surgeon scrubbing in. Only when her hands felt raw did she dry them.

Did any of it matter now? Could you ever really wash away whats already in your mind?

Emily wasnt sure.

But she knew one thing for certainshe would never again eat another rissole made by Kathleen Barnes. Not for love, nor guilt, nor the old lie that “none of it was intentional”.

Three days after, Oliver fried up four rissoles, mashed spuds, sliced some pickles, and began his meal.

“Want one?” he asked, holding out a fork.

“No, thank you,” Emily said quietly.

She left the kitchen, sat in the living room armchair, turned the television up, desperate not to hear Oliver chewing.

She knew something had shifted in their marriage that weekendsomething ragged and fragile, torn by nothing more than an ordinary hand, tending to an ordinary itch.

Closing her eyes, she decided never to dwell on it again. If she could stop thinking, she could keep living, cook for herself, and never let someone elses hands feed her again.