My husband has undergone a transformation.
For Christmas he received a slow cooker from our son.
The idea was for him to take it out to the dairy and cook offal for our farm cats, but it’s never actually left the kitchen.
For some reason, after a lifetime of enduring his Neanderthal attitude towards cooking (he considered it my job), he’s decided he wants to cook my tea on press days when I get in particularly late.
Early in our marriage, when I was the editor of a young women’s magazine, I commuted daily into London and on the train journey home, late at night, exhausted after a day of heavy responsibility, I used to envy the men with whom I shared the carriage.
For I knew they would walk through their front door and find a delicious home cooked meal on the table, whereas I would be expected to get my coat off, my apron on, and start cooking a meal for both of us from scratch.
Now, working just a few short miles from home, I return to a kitchen filled with delicious smells, a bubbling slow cooker, and lovely soft mashed potato and vegetables just waiting to be re-heated in the microwave.
Of course my husband only cooks his own meat, beef or lamb, but now he can truly say he takes it right through from field to fork.