Bright and early

A lonely widow rediscovers her love of cooking after finding a new man to pamper

She opens one eye and glances at the bedside clock in the semi-light of dawn. Time to get his breakfast! Slipping silently out of bed, she pads to the bathroom to wash. She studies her face in the warm glow cast by the shaving light on the mirror. Not bad. Pleasant features, if a little lined by the ravages of time: eyes still a clear blue; mouth just about full enough for a dab of lipstick; and silvery hair styled to flatter a plump face.

A little help never went astray, she thinks, as she begins to apply some light make-up. She’s never believed in letting Tom see her in her dressing-gown and slippers, with bleary eyes and mussedup hair. She wears a fresh white blouse and slips into a tweed skirt. Changing from slippers to low-heeled courts, she steps softly down the stairs.

Switching on the kettle for her morning cuppa, she prepares to cook his breakfast. How good it was to be cooking for a man again! Men love their food, don’t they? Stan enjoyed her cooking and she looked forward to placing a hot meal before him every evening. Even towards the end of his life, when his appetite was so poor, she always managed to coax him with a few spoonfuls of his favourite homemade soup.

Had they been blessed with children, she ruefully thinks, it would have been different. Cooking would have played a bigger role in her life: feeding hungry youngsters after school, stocking up for the healthy appetites of college students and, later, baking for the grandchildren’s visits. She may have even taught them to bake. But it was not to be.

How she envied Jenn next door. Every evening, when she heard the crunch of Pete’s car on the gravel, Jenn opened the door and greeted him with a bright smile. No doubt, a hearty dinner awaited him after he’d changed. Then there were the weekends, when their daughter brought her three little children to visit. Their excited shouts and laughter filled the garden on a sunny day and Jenn often came out with a tray of biscuits and lemonade for them.

It had been a lonely life with no family to cook for or pamper. Cooking was her passion and Stan so enjoyed the meals she lovingly prepared for him. Watching him tuck in gave her a sense of satisfaction that she missed when he died. After that, she lost all interest in food, rarely cooking a proper meal for herself. It was not the same when there was no one to appreciate her cooking. Besides, she only ate to stay alive, never really enjoying food again.

Now, thankfully, there was Tom. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day – or so they say

– and she is determined Tom gets a good one into him each morning. Planning and shopping for his breakfast gives her immense pleasure. Variety is the spice of life, she tells herself, carefully choosing her ingredients.

Some mornings it’s freshly scrambled egg with the best smoked salmon. Or it might be a bowl of muesli with seasonal fruit chopped into it, topped with a large dollop of creamy yoghurt. Occasionally, she gets a smoked kipper and dusts down her recipe book to cook a kedgeree of rice, fish, eggs and light spices.

Some days she goes completely over the top with a full English – eggs (sunny-side up, as he likes them), plump, sizzling sausages, crispy bacon rashers. To these, she may add a fried tomato or perhaps some juicy mushrooms. She always places a selection of cereals on the table, just in case Tom would like some.

And, of course, with every breakfast there is the obligatory crisp toast, real butter that she takes the trouble of curling into a dish, marmalade and jam, whatever he fancies, and a dolly pot of steaming tea. Stan loved his percolated coffee but Tom is more of a builder’s tea man – nice and strong, kept warm in the pot courtesy of her hand-crocheted cosy.

There is no denying that the full

English is Tom’s favourite breakfast. If she wasn’t so mindful of his cholesterol, she would gladly treat him to a fry-up every morning. But no matter what the breakfast, she always goes to a lot of trouble. Watching him enjoy his food makes it all so worthwhile.

A few more minutes to go, so she busies herself setting the table. She wipes down the plastic floral tablecloth again. It’s good to use the nice, big cups that Granny left her. They may use mugs nowadays and fine china is shunned because it’s not dishwasher safe – but no clumsy pottery beakers for her. There is nothing to beat tea in a china cup.

Tom appreciates the small nod to the past. No paper serviettes either. She only offers starched, man-sized damask napkins. It’s a job getting them spanking white again, but she has plenty of time to wash, starch and iron.

“Standards must be maintained!” as Stan always said. Sparkling china, crisp linen and shiny cutlery... the scene is set.

She goes to a lot of trouble. Watching him enjoy his food makes it so worthwhile

The light is getting brighter outside as she places the finishing touch, a vase of daisies in the centre of the table. Then she removes her apron and pats her hair in case it has come adrift during all that fussing.

She hears the milk float’s purr as it stops. The gate squeaks as it is opened. She deliberately doesn’t oil the hinges as the squeak alerts her to a visitor or intruder. Cheery whistling can be heard from along the garden path. She

hears the chink of glass – and with that she opens the door. A blast of cold wind makes her shiver. She

hastily takes two freezing milk bottles from the milkman.

“Come in out of the cold, Tom,” she beams at him, “and get that warm breakfast into you.”