Buckwheat Instead of Truffles

Porridge Instead of Truffles

I was standing at the stove, watching as what Id spent two hours making began to curdle in the saucepan. The creamy truffle sauce for my wild mushroom risotto was supposed to be smooth, rich, and silken, alive with flavour. Instead, it split. Butter pooled on the surface while the yolky base sank to the bottom in thick lumps.

I lowered the heat, then started adding cold butter in tiny cubes, stirring slowly in circles. My hands remembered the motion without me needing to think. Outside, the sky was darkening. The streetlights along Baker Street flickered on below. I could hear the distant rumble of London traffic. Just another ordinary October evening.

Claire, will you be much longer? Ive been starving since two oclock.

Simon was standing in the kitchen doorway, as he always didnever coming fully inside, hands deep in his pockets, wearing that same expression on his face. After twenty-three years I still couldnt quite name it. Not impatiencesomething more slippery.

Twenty minutes, I called back, not looking up. The sauce is being difficult.

Righttwenty more minutes, then, he said and disappeared. I could hear him settling on the sofa in the living room, flicking the TV on much too loud, only to turn the volume down straight after. That was a sign too. I knew all his signals by now.

The sauce came together in the endnot perfect, but close. The risotto was just right, gorgeously oozy. I plated it up, decorated it with shaved black truffle, a piece Id paid a small fortune for at the Marylebone High Street marketmore than my friend Anna and I used to spend on lunch at a decent café.

I set the table, lit two candlesnot for romance, but because food always looked better in candlelight. So did I. You couldnt see the tired lines around my eyes quite as well.

Simon sat down, picked up his fork, staring at the plate for a long while.

Risotto again, he eventually said.

You asked for something with mushrooms.

I asked for something mushroomy. Didnt have to be risotto. I had risotto at that restaurant with Ben last weekhes got a proper chef, you know, a professional. Not really fair to compare.

I sat opposite, fork in my hand. Try it first.

He chewed slowly, as though conducting a serious taste test.

Rices a bit overdone.

Its cooked properlyal dente, just as it should be.

According to you. Okay, fine.

We ate in silence. I watched the candles. He watched his plate, wearing that unknowable look. Outside, London carried on: hurrying, buzzing, oblivious to risotto or truffly woes.

Sauce is too rich, he said, nearly finished.

I said nothing.

Just being honest. You should want honest feedback, if youre serious about cooking and not just fishing for compliments.

I didnt ask, I told him.

Well, more fool you.

He wandered off to watch the football; I cleared up, washed the dishes, scraped what was left of my truffle sauce from the saucepan. The same luxurious sauce Id remade three times, read French cookbooks for, and carried halfway across London in a special container. The sauce that cost as much as a bottle of nice perfume.

Too rich.

I leaned over the sink, watching the water swirl away. Then I dried my hands, switched off the kitchen light, and went to bed.

Just another evening.

***

Mrs Thomas arrived on Saturday at three, as she always did, phoning forty minutes ahead so Id have time to tidy up and bake something for tea. My mother-in-law was the sort to notice dust, but never mention it openlyjust let her gaze linger on the windowsill a touch too long.

She was seventy-eight, tiny and wiry, standing straight as a pokermost forty-year-olds would envy her posture. Shed lost her husband six years ago, stubbornly living alone ever since in her own flat in Highgate, despite Simons pleas to move closer. Id never asked her to move in: we both understood, and never needed to say anything.

That Saturday she looked paler than usualI noticed it as I opened the door.

Come in, Mrs Thomas. I made a walnut cake.

Thank you, Claire. Is Simon in?

Hes gone to Bensshould be back this evening.

She nodded and went straight to the kitchen. That was unusual. She usually preferred our lounge chair by the bay window.

I poured the tea, sliced the cake. We sat across from each other.

How are you feeling? I asked.

Im all right. Blood pressure playing up, nothing major.

She nibbled a piece of cake.

Its lovely, she said, and it sounded so warm, so simple, that I felt my throat tighten.

There was a pause. Mrs Thomas sipped her tea, looking out the window at battered trees losing the last of their leaves, nearly November now.

Claire, may I ask you something? I hope you wont take offense.

Ill try not to.

She held my gaze a long moment.

You remember you were a designer, dont you?

It caught me off guard. Of course.

A good one?

People said so.

I know you were. I saw your projectsyou remember that flat you did for the family on Holland Park Avenue? I visited them once. It was beautiful. I thought then: heres someone who can see space.

I looked at her.

Why do you bring this up?

She set down her cup, very carefully. Shed always done things carefullya habit from a life lived quietly, not risking a misplaced word or gesture.

Because Im ashamed, she said softly.

It was the first time Id ever heard her say anything like that. She belonged to a generation that knew how to keep silence around important things.

I should have told you before. Years ago. Perhaps ten years ago when you stopped working. But I kept quiet. Thought it wasnt my place, maybe you wanted it that way, maybe it was right.

She looked down at her handsher slender, graceful hands.

Simon doesnt like fancy food.

I thought I misheard her.

Pardon?

He never has. Weak stomach, ever since he was young. The doctor told him, thirty years ago: keep it simple. Porridge, soups, boiled meats. His favourite meal, since he was a child, is mince and mash. Minced beef, mashed potatoes, some butter. He could eat it every day.

The kitchen was silent; only the fridge hummed, far off, like someone elses life.

So why then my voice didnt sound like mine.

Why he asks for foie gras and truffles, complains the sauce isnt silky enough? She finished for me. Yes.

Mrs Thomas looked up at me, something old and heavy in her eyes. Not anger, not even pity. Something more elemental.

Because he enjoys the process. Watching you try, spending money, time and effort, then waiting for his verdict. He likes saying something isnt good enough. It gives him a feeling of importance.

I set my cup down, hands shaking.

You understand what youre saying?

I do. I thought about this for a long time before coming here today. I do understand.

And you said nothing for ten years.

Ive kept quiet for thirty-eight, Claire. Ever since Colin started playing those games about food with me.

Colin. Colin Thomas, her late husband, Simons father. I barely knew himhe died a year after our wedding. I remembered a large man, excellent manners in public.

He was a foodie too, she said, with a twist in her voice. I cooked, tried my best, always got a critique: too dry, too much sauce, never just right. Then I saw him at his mothers house in Devon, eating a simple meat-and-veg stew, three helpings, barely said a wordjust smiled, relaxed, happy. It was like hed finally come home.

I sat, listening, as the rain began outside.

I realised then. But didnt leave. It was different in those daysone simply didnt leave. And Simon saw it. Learnt how it all worked. Learnt that you could hold a person that way. Its a tool, he picked it up and used it.

He does it on purpose, I said. Not a question. I already knew.

I doubt he thinks Im going to hurt my wife each time, Claire. People just live as theyve been shown to live, feel important by someone elses expense.

I stood. It was impossible to sit still. I went to the window, looking out on the rain, the shining street, umbrellas bobbing past.

Ten years.

Ten years of cooking courses, first the basics, then advanced, specialising in French, Italian. Reading, watching, seeking out the right ingredients, handpicking wine, measuring flavours. I used to wake in the night with an idea for a sauce.

I thought it was a new profession, a calling, since Id left design.

But all the time, he was satisfied with porridge inside.

Why are you telling me this now? I asked.

Because Im old, said Mrs Thomas, simply. And youre notyoure fifty-two and, honestly, thats still young. Its almost a beginning.

I turned to her. She looked straight at me, not hiding anything.

And because Im to blame. Not deliberately, but I made him that way. Taught him by example. At least I can do thistell you the truth.

I sat back down, cupped my cold tea between my hands.

He wont change, she went on. Im not telling you what to do, but you deserve to know.

We finished tea, mostly in silence. She buttoned her coat at the doorI helped, as her fingers werent as nimble.

The cake was lovely, she said as she left. Simple, homey. Best thing youve baked for me.

After shed gone, I stood in the hallway a long time, staring at Simons jackets on the peg.

***

For the next fortnight, dinner was much the same as ever. I carried on, automatically, preparing duck terrines and lobster bisques, elaborate Japanese-inspired desserts, buying ingredients just so, fighting with recipes.

Simon ate, found flaws, and I said nothing.

But something had shifted. A sheet of glass, invisible, slid between me and my life. I began seeing myself from the outside: at the stove, zesting lemons, stirring saffron, carrying food to the table, waiting. For him to speak. Watching his face before he even made a sound.

And I saw it thenthe glimpse of satisfaction. Not at the food, but at the moment before he could make me flinch. The faint twitch, almost like a child about to tug a thread.

I remembered my old projects. How I used to step into a space and see the finished room instantly, as though it were waiting to be seen. How I talked to clients, sensed what they wanted beyond what they said. How I felt when they finally came in, stopped and stared, and smiled.

I had my own little office on Gloucester Road, shared with two designers. Wed drink awful coffee and argue over paint finishes late into the night.

Simon said it wasnt real work. I needed to choose: family or running building sites. He made enough money for us both. Clients were difficultwhy deal with the stress? Someone had to be at home.

I chose family. I was forty-two. I thought I could always go back someday.

A decade passed.

One evening, I picked up my phone and texted Anna Robinson, an old colleague who still ran a design studio. We sent each other birthday messages, nothing more.

Anna, hi. Wondered if we could meet up soon?

She replied half an hour later.

Claire! Of courseId love to catch up. You free tomorrow?

***

We met at a café off Great Portland Street. Anna looked much the same, hair cut shorter, a couple of silver strands she wore confidently.

Youre looking well, she said.

Youre a terrible liar, I smiled.

She laughed. All rightyou look tired, but good.

We ordered coffee. I hesitated.

Anna, do you have any work? For me, I mean.

She eyed me carefully.

Are you serious?

I am. I know its been ten years, but I havent forgotten.

Anna was silent for a bit, spinning her cup.

Ive got three projects now; ones a big country house, we could use some extra hands and ideas. But Ill be honestyoull have to start almost like an intern. Not that youre worse, but the softwares changed, standards shifted, clients expect more. Are you ready?

I am.

And pay?

Whatever you offer, for now.

Anna studied me a long moment. Something must have convinced her.

All right. Come in Monday and lets see.

From Monday on, I was in at nine and out at six or seven, learning new software, making silly mistakes, remembering skills as though swimming after years on dry landyour body learning faster than your mind.

At home, I started making porridge.

The first time was almost funnyId come home late, exhausted, fridge full only of fancy ingredients for another elaborate dinner. Closed it, opened the cupboardporridge oats. A tin of beans. Butter.

I made porridge, opened the beans, added butter. Called Simon in.

He stared at his bowl as if Id set him a conundrum.

Whats this?

Porridge and beans.

I can see. Are you alright?

Im tired. Tomorrow Ill do something else.

He sat, ate in silence. No comments. Finished the lot.

I watched him, thinking of Mrs Thomas, her stories of Devon and three helpings of stew, that look of someone finally home.

Simon finished, stood, left the table. Said nothing. Not good, not bad.

That was an answer too.

***

The real conversation happened two weeks later. I came home from work, thinking about a colour palette for a clients project. Walked in, took off my shoes.

Simon was slumped on the sofa with the TV murmuring.

Where have you been? Its past eight.

I was working.

Still with Anna?

Its my job, Simon.

He turned off the TV.

Claire, this isnt what we agreed.

Not sure what you mean.

You being out all day, the state of the housewhat are we supposed to eat? The fridge is empty.

Theres eggs, potatoes, sausage. You could fry something.

He stared as though Id spoken Mandarin.

Are you joking?

No. Just telling you whats there.

What about your fancy food, your truffles and sauces? You do remember how to cook properly?

I put my shopping down, hung my coat up.

Look, SimonI want to talk, properly. Can we do that?

He braced himself: shoulders forward, eyes narrowing.

Talk about what? I work, you stay home

Im not staying home anymore.

So thats that, then. Decided on your own?

Im having this talk right now.

He paced to the window, then back.

We had a normal life. Youd cook, Id commentthat was our world.

Your world. Not mine.

Oh right, Mums been in your ear again, hasnt she?

I looked at the man Id lived beside for twenty-three years, in the flat hed inheritednever feeling quite at home, never altering anything though I saw what could have changed, had I let myself.

Your mother told me the truth, I said. Just the truth.

What truth? That shes an old lady who loves a drama?

That you like plain food. Mince and mash. Thats always been your favourite.

There was a beatjust a second. But it was there.

Thats rubbish, he said, finally.

You finished it the other day with no complaints.

I was hungry!

Simon, please. Just stop for a second.

He stopped.

Im not picking a fight, I said. I want to talk, honestlyabout us. About all these years. Can we live differently? Not as we have?

He almost met my eyesomething real showed, then passed.

Differently, how?

As equals. Both working. Sometimes we eat simply, sometimes its fancy, but its never about making the other small. We talk honestly. No games.

A long silence.

I havent criticised you. I just say what I think. Im an honest man.

Simon, I said softly. You pretended not to like porridge while I wore myself out for truffles.

Silence.

That wasnt honest, I said, matter-of-fact.

He didnt answer, just went to the bedroom and shut the door. Not slamming; just quietly, another signal.

I fried up some potatoes, ate alone at the kitchen table, then sat with my tea, listening to him pace about in the next room.

***

The following months felt like ice melting: nothing dramatic, just a slow dissolving, day after day as bits of our old lives chipped off.

Simon tried different tactics.

Sulking, first: looking wounded, waiting for me to coax or apologise. I didnt. I cooked simply: soup, cottage pie, mash. Did the housework, headed to work, came back in the evenings.

Then he tried softness. One day, a bunch of tulips from the tube station, suggesting dinner out. We went; he was chatty, asked about my job, laughed. I almost let myself believe something had changed.

Then, the next day: Why didnt you make something special for my friends this weekend? Just asking.

Im doing pasta and salad.

Pasta?

Yes. Pasta.

He made that same expression. He didnt notice I recognised it now.

Then real argumentsvoice raised, pacing, listing everything hed given: flat, money, letting me potter about with food. As if those were investments expecting return.

You invested, I said calmly. But Im not a factory, Simon. Im a human being. People dont work that way.

He didnt understand, or wouldnt.

Mrs Thomas phoned every week. Briefly, not burdensome. Shed ask how I was and say, Keep at it, or, Youre doing the right thing. Once she said, Hes angry with me, isnt he?

A bit, I replied.

Let him be. But remember, Im with you. For the first time in my life, Im on someones side. I never had that before.

I understood.

In December, Anna gave me my own project: a flat in Camden for a young couple. I barely slept in the run-upmy anxiety wasnt about lacking skill, but about believing Id forgotten how to do it well.

Turns out, I hadnt.

The client, a woman in her thirties, walked in to the finished flat, paused for almost half a minute, then turned to me.

Youre a wizard, she said.

I remembered that feeling. Thats what it was called.

***

In February, I realised Simon and I wouldnt make it. Not due to lack of tryingId given him chances, talked things through, never ran to stay with a friend, never called a lawyer, even though advice about toxic relationships seemed to show up everywhere online. I stayed, tried to build something new from what we had.

But he didnt want anything new.

He wanted me backnot me, but the version of me who waited at the stove for his words. He didnt want a wife; he wanted a mirror that reflected his sense of importance.

Thats how you know youre with a manipulator, I suppose: when it matters less if youre happy than if youre watching for his approval.

Simon wasnt a bad man in most respectshe didnt drink, didnt hit me, gave money, never strayed as far as I know. He probably loved, in his way.

But with him I was becoming less, drop by dropnot daily heartbreak, but a slow dissolving, losing my shape, forgetting who Id been.

I filed for divorce that March.

He refused to believe at first, then pleaded, then raged, then pleaded again. Mrs Thomas came round to talk to himI dont know what she said, but after that, he just deflated. He didnt accept it, not reallyjust cut me off, growing cold and distant.

The flat was his. Id always known. I stayed at my friend Emmas, in her spare room, until I found a place. In June, I moved into a small flat in Hackneynothing grand, but lively, real.

I did up the flat myself, nothing fancy, just small improvements, choosing everything with a kind of delighted precision I hadnt felt for years. I realised Id always known what I liked. Id just never asked myself.

***

A year has passed.

Its April. Im now fifty-three. Out my kitchen window, the trees along the street are blooming with small, white flowersI couldnt name them, but I watch them every morning while coffee brews.

These days, I make coffee in a simple pot. Good beans, but no special rituals.

Anna welcomed me as a partner in January. Now we have four projects on the gotwo are mine outright. I sleep through the night again. Sometimes I still wake, planning a layout or thinking about the light in someones hallwaybut its a creative spark, not anxiety.

Mrs Thomas still rings once a week. I recently visited her in Highgate with a cake; we drank tea and talked for hours. She told stories about her husband, about the years she kept silent. I found myself thinking about how pain can trickle down generations, how it takes someone to say, No more, and actually stop the cycle.

Mrs Thomas couldntbut she helped me to. That matters.

Simons still in the old flat. We rarely message, only about paperwork. Friends say hes started going to cookery classes now. Maybe people do change, once theres no one left to control.

I dont think of him much. Now and then, Ill see a jar of black truffle in a shop and pause, feeling something that isnt quite regret and isnt quite laughterjust complexity. Ten years dont disappear overnight.

But I dont get stuck.

I met Michael last September. He came as a client, wanting to redo his flat after losing his wife to cancer two years before. The place was filled with old memories, her pictures on the wall. He just wanted it lighter, easier to breathe.

I understood that intimately.

Michael is fifty-four, an engineerhe designs bridges. Theres a symmetry, I think: he builds bridges; I create space. Hes calmnot passive, just steady. When he listens, its with his full attention. He laughs when its funny, doesnt try to be more important than he is.

After our second meeting, he asked if Id like to get a coffee after.

So we did. Then again. Then he invited me to the cinema. We watched a French filmhe laughed quietly, and I realised how long it had been since it felt safe just to be next to someone.

Weve been seeing each other a few months, unhurriedlywe’ve both had our share of past.

He comes round on Fridays.

***

Its Friday today.

I got home at six, unpacked shoppingchicken thighs, potatoes, onions, carrots, fresh parsley, double cream.

I make a mean chicken and potato bakenothing fancy, more a traybake than a casserole: layers of potato, chicken, onion, carrot, cream on top, into the oven for an hour, then parsley.

I cook it when I want to make something homely, not restaurant-perfect, just home.

As it baked, I changed, surrounded by the aroma filling the flatonion, butter, roasting chicken, a hint of garlic. The scent of every grandmothers kitchen, the sort I hadnt thought about for years.

At seven, the buzzer went.

I opened the doorMichael stepped in, bag in hand. I could see a bottle of wine peeping out.

Hi, he said.

Hi. Something smells lovely. Potatoes?

Chicken and potato bakeneeds another hour.

Perfect. He shrugged off his jacket. I brought wine and he rummaged in the bag this.

He pulled out a small box of chocolate hazelnut clustersthe cheap sort, ordinary, from every supermarket.

You mentioned you liked them once, back in September when we passed that sweet shop, he said.

I took the box.

You remembered.

I try, he replied matter-of-fact.

We went to the kitchen. I checked the bake: nearly done. Michael poured the wine, took a seat at the counter.

Hows your project on The Strand? he asked.

Stressful clientwants everything immediately, and on a shoestring.

He chuckled. It happens.

But itll turn out all right: the ceiling height alone is worth it. Five metres! Would be a crime not to use it properly.

He watched me stir something on the hob.

Claire, he said softly.

Mm?

Are you happy? Not generallyright now.

I looked up. He was serious.

Right now? I thought. Yes. Right now, yes.

Good, he replied, and said nothing more.

The traybake was ready. I pulled it out, let it settle, chopped fresh parsley over, and put it on the tableno candles, just the kitchen light.

Michael eyed the dish.

It looks wonderful.

Its just a traybake.

It smells and looks good. Can you do ugly food?

I laughed. Not on purpose.

We ate. He had seconds, quietly offering his plate. I refilled it. We chatted about work, about his plan to visit his daughter in Edinburgh, about my dream trip to the countrysidemaybe Wales or Scotland. He fancied a quiet week in Cornwall.

Later, we had tea and those supermarket chocolates.

Outside, April London bustledscents of rain, earth, blossoms on the branches swaying in the night breeze.

I thought: this is it. Not a celebration, not an eventjust a night, a warm, real person beside me, simple food that smells like home, and not one moment of waiting for his word.

Sometimes I remember those yearsthe truffles, the lobster bisque, the split sauces. The ache for one approving word. I regret sometimesnot constantly. Wasting time, wasting myself on someone elses rules. But regretting too much is a luxury I dont afford anymore.

A womans sense of worthI read once that its like eye colour, either you get dealt it or not. But thats wrong. It can be built; sometimes its demolished, sometimes you start again at fifty-two, in someone elses office, when youve forgotten the software and want to walk outbut you stay. Bit by bit, you see the shape of yourself again.

Personal boundariesan overused phrase, but the thing itself, I get now. Just the understanding: here is where I end, and someone else begins. Not a walljust awareness. Heres me. Heres mine.

The recipe for happiness is probably very simple: do what youre good at, surround yourself with people who see you, cook what you fancy, and stop waiting for someones word.

What are you thinking about? Michael asked.

I looked over at his calm face, his cup of tea.

The traybake, I answered.

He laughed. A fitting subject for deep thought.

The very best, I agreed. More tea?

Yes, please.

I filled his cup, then my own. Set the pot back, gazed out at the white-blossomed trees.

Michael?

Mm?

Youll never tell me its too salty, will you?

He smiled, earnest. It wasnt salty at all. But if it is one dayIll just say, Next time, maybe a little less, and eat the lot anyway.

I nodded.

Thats a good answer.

I try, he said. He reached for the last chocolate. Is this one free?

All yours.

Beyond the window, the branches bobbed, London humming through the glassindifferent to dinners, sauces, lost years or years yet to come. The city simply lived. And now, so did I. My tea was hot, the scent of the oven lingered, and, on the sill, a little plant Id bought last week simply because its leaves were the right shade of green.

Just because I liked the colour.

Thats how I live now.