Another Woman Cooks Meatballs for My Husband

Whos that woman frying meat patties for my husband? Eleanor shouted, hurling her handbag aside and bracing for a showdown.

Its Winifred, George replied, his tone oddly pleased.

Terrible! Eleanors face hardened. What is she doing here?

Just as you can see, George said, inhaling the scent that drifted through the flat. Shes cooking the patties!

Have you gone mad? Eleanor roared again. Youve invited a stranger into my kitchen to fry meat for you?

Yes! George nodded. After a night of whisky Ive developed a craving for patties.

Winifred popped her head into the kitchen.

Oh! Here I am, the very hostess you need! Your husband cant manage a patty on his own?

What do you mean cant? Eleanor snapped, bewildered. I can as well as anyone!

Winifred smiled slyly. I simply didnt realise your husband had turned you down when I offered to cook for him. Perhaps I could tempt him a bit more, eh? Maybe hell agree.

Yes, Ill hand you the patty with my own hands! Eleanor hissed.

The size of your hands tells me youre no threat, Winifred retorted. Your nails are immaculate, your hands covered in cream!

You should spend that time braiding your own curls and acting important! Its obvious youve never set a foot in a proper household.

Yes, I Eleanor choked on her fury. Just so you know

Come on, dear lady, let me give you a patty! Only one, lest you cant fit into your business suit! Winifred cooed, waving Eleanor toward the kitchen.

Deal with her first, Eleanor muttered as she passed George, then get ready.

Dont let my patties go to waste! George called after her.

Eleanor stormed into the kitchen, determined to throw the impertinent guest out. Winifred, however, sat at the table, pouring tea into cups.

A soothing balm for you? she asked with a smile.

I Eleanor spat between her teeth.

Fine, as you wish, Winifred shrugged, Ill have my tea.

Youre! Eleanor blurted an expletive.

Off with your tongue! Winifred snapped back. Youve made your husband so desperate that he strays in the streets looking for someone to fry patties for him.

A man can only be starved of food if he promises to lose weightotherwise he should be full, clean and loved.

Er, Eleanor stammered.

Its good I intercepted him! He was out with some chemicallystyled woman, already ready to fry patties, make the bed, the whole lot! Winifred giggled.

And you? she asked, perching on a stool.

Do I need you? Winifred smirked, sipping tea. I have my own husband. I thought Id do a favour for you, a regular client. And keep yours from wandering about looking for someone to fry patties for him!

It feels like weve met before, Eleanor said suspiciously.

Your memory serves you, Winifred replied. I work at the butchers down the road. You and George shop there all the time.

Exactly! Eleanor beamed.

Pocketfull! Winifred retorted. Youve let your husband in so casually that any woman could be cooking for you. Is that proper?

—

Originally George and Eleanor lived the classic English family life. George taught at the university and earned a decent wage; Eleanor stayed at home with the children. She spent eight years on maternity leave, giving birth to three children and feeling satisfied that shed fulfilled the traditional role.

George was proud of their large, happy household. Hed been an only child, remembering the loneliness when his parents were at work. He often dreamed, If only I had a brother or sister, wed have such fun together.

He did everything he could to spare his children the sorrow hed known. Their three youngsters were looked after by Eleanor, who never left the house. Many wondered how George managed to support such a brood; after all, university salaries were modest.

The secret of their financial stability lay not in shady schemes but in plain luck. For his eighteenth birthday, Georges parents gifted him a cottage in the Cotswolds. He never understood its purpose, but accepted it graciously.

Two years later, just before his twentieth birthday, the cottage sat empty. George decided to sell it, fetching a tidy sum which he passed to his friend Arthur to invest in a fledgling business. Arthur, unlike many, didnt squander the money; he grew the venture, and George became a silent partner. George never bothered with the details.

Aye, Arthur, you know the tradejust look after the profit and send my share to my account, hed say.

At first the earnings were modest, but as the business expanded, the returns swelled. The surplus was deposited into a savings account.

For something big or dear, George would smile, let the children have a nest egg for school, a flat, a car, perhaps a wedding.

Thus the family lived comfortably. George juggled lecturing, research and occasional publications, delighted with his academic life. Eleanor kept the home, tended to the children and to George.

Leisure was a joint affair; the money allowed them occasional holidays abroad and occasional splurges at the local pub.

Everything ran smoothly until their youngest son turned ten. Georges routine remained unchanged, but Eleanor felt a growing emptiness. The hours once filled with childrearing now echoed hollowly; the children, now more independent, asked for space.

I feel like Im fading away, Eleanor confessed one evening, eyes glistening. I love you, I love our family, but Im losing myself.

Theres a wife, a mother, a housewifeno happy woman left, she admitted. Im scared I might walk away one day.

Its a serious statement, George replied. What do you propose?

She hesitated, then blurted, I want to start a business! We have some savings that earn a modest interest. If I invest a portion, I could either double it or lose it, but the loss wouldnt cripple us.

George paused. My dear, if you succeed youll be more than a wife and motheryoull be a businesswoman. And if not, at least youll know it wasnt for you.

Then do as you think best, George said, conceding.

There was no other choice. Eleanor threw herself into the venture, almost forgetting her family. Necessity alone reminded her of her duties as wife, mother, and mistress of the household.

George, though a scholar, was no domestic fool. He could tidy up, cook a simple meal and look after the children, albeit with a malebiased slant: a quick sweep, a halfhearted attempt at cleaning, and a habit of sweeping rubbish under the rugout of sight, out of mind.

The children managed themselves, needing help only with homework or a few pounds for personal wants. Cooking, however, was a different story. George could only manage basic, hearty dishesoften rescued by frozen meat patties and readymade nuggets.

One afternoon, while shopping for groceries, he confessed to a shop assistant, Id love a homecooked patty, not the frozen sort.

The assistant replied, Your wife can make them at home, cant she? George sighed, Shes at work now. I could buy mince, but I dont know how to shape it, and it would just sit in the freezer.

A neighbour, Mrs. Hawthorne, offered, Let me cook you a patty! to which the shop assistant retorted, Youve been coming for years buying only dumplings. Do you even know how to handle a patty?

Mrs. Hawthorne, feeling slighted, suggested to George, If you can wait till seven, Ill swing by and fry them for you. My husbands away, so I have time.

George, yearning for a proper patty he hadnt tasted in years, agreed. He helped Winifred at the till around half past six, then bought the remaining ingredientsbread, milk, onionsfrom the corner shop. Soon the kitchen was alive with the sizzle of Winifreds patties, awaiting Eleanors return.

Mind your business, dear, Winifred warned later, wiping the counter. Your husband was almost taken away by that escapade. A patty today, a pie tomorrow, and soon hell be lost to you entirely.

Im not offended, Eleanor replied calmly.

What would I be offended about? Winifred laughed. Hell chase patties today, pies tomorrow, maybe a stew next week. And youll be left looking for purpose without a man.

Thank you, Eleanor murmured, her voice low.

Eleanors venture never reached spectacular heights, but it didnt flop outright either. Profit was modest, enough to keep the accounts balanced. Had she pressed on, ignoring family, perhaps shed have scaled higher, but Winifreds lesson made her rethink priorities. Survival was no longer the aim; a balanced eighthour workday with two days off a week sufficed.

In the end, George stopped wandering the streets in search of women to fry his patties. Their life settled into a quieter rhythm, remembered now as a tale of ambition, mischief, and a lesson learned in a modest English kitchen.