Nothing was left to
chance in Mother’s kitchen.
He remembered watching her when he was a young boy – the way she’d cover the open page of her recipe book with a sheet of acetate to protect it before she started. How she’d
peer at the page as she went along, measuring out the ingredients exactly – even quarter teaspoons of salt were carefully calculated. Everything was washed up as she went along; any rare
spills were cleaned away immediately.
Then he thought of weekends in Dublin over the past few months, in the poky flat that Ruth shared with Claire and Maura. Their potluck casseroles, where they’d fling in whatever they could
find in the fridge and hope for the best – inevitably, with more success some times than others. Every saucepan used; onion skins, red pepper seeds and eggshells littering every worktop. A
couple of bottles of not very good wine to go with every dinner, once the few decent ones he’d brought up had run out. A lot more fun, he had to admit, than Mother’s perfect meals in
Limerick – although he
was
tempted, once or twice, to hint that they try following a recipe occasionally. He’d held his tongue though – they might suggest he do it
himself.
He thought about the food in Crete, when he and Ruth first met. Plates of stuffed vine leaves – Ruth went mad for them – salads drenched in salty olive oil, crowned with a thick slab
of feta sprinkled with herbs. Tender chunks of chicken wedged between deliciously crisp vegetables on a skewer, slow-cooked lamb, rich with oregano and basil. Inch-thick monkfish steaks that melted
in your mouth. Spinach and cheese pies, still warm from the oven, which they brought to the beach every day. He remembered leaning over and licking the flakes of pastry off her bare stomach, and
Ruth laughing and pushing him away, probably not wanting him to notice that she wasn’t as flat there as she could be.
Funny how he’d ended up marrying someone like Ruth really, when he’d always gone for someone so different. But Mother was right – Ruth had exactly the qualities a man should
look for in a wife. She’d look after him, put his needs first, support him in whatever he did. And she’d have children too, without worrying about her figure, or whether babies would
interfere with her career – Ruth wasn’t a bit like that. Didn’t really have a career anyway – you wouldn’t call hairdressing a career – so it would be no big
deal for Ruth to give it up when the kids came along. Not, indeed, that he was in any hurry for kids – time enough for all that responsibility when they were well into their thirties, like
his mother had been – but Ruth had hinted often enough that she wanted a few; he’d be able to put her off for only so long.
He’d enjoyed their fling in Crete, of course – who wouldn’t get a kick out of being so patently adored? Andrew was used to his mother’s adoration, but to find this in a
girlfriend was something new and delightful for him – girls usually played such games. But Ruth was different – so innocent, so eager to please; really, he’d felt a pang when his
two weeks were up and she’d seen his coach off. Waiting for her at Dublin Airport two nights later – no need to tell her that he’d been planning to stay with pals in Dublin for a
few extra nights when he flew back anyway, before heading down to Limerick – he’d quite looked forward to seeing her again. And her face when she’d spotted him – well, that
was gratifying. That in itself, that depth of feeling that she wasn’t experienced enough to disguise, was enough of a novelty to keep him interested. Enough to keep them together for a few
months, until Mother started asking him when he was going to bring Ruth down to meet her.
And then, when they’d met, when his mother had taken to Ruth so strongly – well, that clinched it. Mother was no fool; if she thought Ruth would make a worthy wife for him, that was
good enough for
chance in Mother’s kitchen.
He remembered watching her when he was a young boy – the way she’d cover the open page of her recipe book with a sheet of acetate to protect it before she started. How she’d
peer at the page as she went along, measuring out the ingredients exactly – even quarter teaspoons of salt were carefully calculated. Everything was washed up as she went along; any rare
spills were cleaned away immediately.
Then he thought of weekends in Dublin over the past few months, in the poky flat that Ruth shared with Claire and Maura. Their potluck casseroles, where they’d fling in whatever they could
find in the fridge and hope for the best – inevitably, with more success some times than others. Every saucepan used; onion skins, red pepper seeds and eggshells littering every worktop. A
couple of bottles of not very good wine to go with every dinner, once the few decent ones he’d brought up had run out. A lot more fun, he had to admit, than Mother’s perfect meals in
Limerick – although he
was
tempted, once or twice, to hint that they try following a recipe occasionally. He’d held his tongue though – they might suggest he do it
himself.
He thought about the food in Crete, when he and Ruth first met. Plates of stuffed vine leaves – Ruth went mad for them – salads drenched in salty olive oil, crowned with a thick slab
of feta sprinkled with herbs. Tender chunks of chicken wedged between deliciously crisp vegetables on a skewer, slow-cooked lamb, rich with oregano and basil. Inch-thick monkfish steaks that melted
in your mouth. Spinach and cheese pies, still warm from the oven, which they brought to the beach every day. He remembered leaning over and licking the flakes of pastry off her bare stomach, and
Ruth laughing and pushing him away, probably not wanting him to notice that she wasn’t as flat there as she could be.
Funny how he’d ended up marrying someone like Ruth really, when he’d always gone for someone so different. But Mother was right – Ruth had exactly the qualities a man should
look for in a wife. She’d look after him, put his needs first, support him in whatever he did. And she’d have children too, without worrying about her figure, or whether babies would
interfere with her career – Ruth wasn’t a bit like that. Didn’t really have a career anyway – you wouldn’t call hairdressing a career – so it would be no big
deal for Ruth to give it up when the kids came along. Not, indeed, that he was in any hurry for kids – time enough for all that responsibility when they were well into their thirties, like
his mother had been – but Ruth had hinted often enough that she wanted a few; he’d be able to put her off for only so long.
He’d enjoyed their fling in Crete, of course – who wouldn’t get a kick out of being so patently adored? Andrew was used to his mother’s adoration, but to find this in a
girlfriend was something new and delightful for him – girls usually played such games. But Ruth was different – so innocent, so eager to please; really, he’d felt a pang when his
two weeks were up and she’d seen his coach off. Waiting for her at Dublin Airport two nights later – no need to tell her that he’d been planning to stay with pals in Dublin for a
few extra nights when he flew back anyway, before heading down to Limerick – he’d quite looked forward to seeing her again. And her face when she’d spotted him – well, that
was gratifying. That in itself, that depth of feeling that she wasn’t experienced enough to disguise, was enough of a novelty to keep him interested. Enough to keep them together for a few
months, until Mother started asking him when he was going to bring Ruth down to meet her.
And then, when they’d met, when his mother had taken to Ruth so strongly – well, that clinched it. Mother was no fool; if she thought Ruth would make a worthy wife for him, that was
good enough for
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