You cant cook like my mum, remarked the husband, pushing his plate away untouched.
Emily, whats that smell? asked Edward as he stepped into their London flat. He hung up his coat and sniffed the air. Somethings burning
Its roast chicken, called Emily from the kitchen, hurriedly turning off the hob under a pot of boiling potatoes. Dinners nearly ready!
Edward walked in to find his wife bustling by the sink, rinsing salad leaves. Her hair was dishevelled, a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her apron splattered with something orange.
How was work? she asked without turning. Did Mr. Higgins give you trouble again?
No, it was fine. And you? He peered into the oven where a chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. Whats this recipe?
Found it online, Emily said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. French-style roast chicken. Supposed to be simple but impressive.
Edward nodded silently and left to change. Emily set the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the fresh linen shed laid out specially. Shed been trying new recipes lately, experimenting with spices, hoping to surprise him after long days at the office.
Dinners ready, love, she said when he returned in his loungewear.
They sat opposite each other. Emily watched nervously as he served himself chicken, potatoes, and salad. She took only a small portionher appetite gone from anticipation.
Edward cut a piece of meat, chewed thoughtfully, his face unreadable. He sipped his tea in silence.
Well? she finally asked. How is it?
Its alright, he said shortly, not looking up.
Just *alright*? Her shoulders slumped. I tried a new recipe, I thought
Edward sighed, set down his fork, and met her eyes.
You cant cook like my mum, he said, leaving his plate half-full. Her meals were always perfect. This is just food.
Emily swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat.
Im learning, she murmured. Not everyone gets it right straight away
Mum had five kids to feed by your age, Edward continued, rising from the table. No one ever went hungry. And everything tasted amazing.
He left for the living room, switching on the telly. Emily sat staring at his unfinished plate. The chicken *was* dry, the potatoes overcooked, the sauce oddly flavoured. But shed tried so hard.
Clearing the table, she scraped the leftovers into the binno one would eat them now. The clatter of dishes echoed as she stacked them in the sink.
Em, you making tea? Edward called from the sofa.
Yes, she replied, though she couldnt muster the energy.
As the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *was* a brilliant cookher Sunday roasts legendary, her shepherds pie unforgettable. When Edward first brought Emily home, Margaret had laid out a feast, grinning as he piled his plate.
Our Eddie loves my Yorkshire puddings, shed said, whisking batter in a bowl. I make extra so he can take some back.
Emily had watched, amazed at how effortlessly Margaret workedno measuring, no hesitation. But when *she* tried, her puddings collapsed, her gravy lumped.
Mum, could you teach me? shed asked once, lingering in the kitchen.
Oh, its nothing special, love, Margaret had laughed. Cookings about heart. Love your husband, and the rest follows.
Yet love wasnt enough. Emilys roasts burned, her cakes sunk, her soups lacked depth.
Teas ready, she said, placing a tray of biscuits beside Edwards chair.
He took a cup without glancing up.
She sat beside him, half-watching the telly, dreading tomorrows dinner. Another meal hed compare unfavourably to his mothers.
Eddie, maybe I could visit your mum? she ventured. Learn her roast recipe properly.
Why bother? He shrugged. Shes busy.
She wouldnt mind. Itd help me.
Shes not young anymore, he said dismissively. Besides, shes got a gift. You well.
Emily said nothing, the sting sharp in her chest. Was she really so hopeless?
The next day, she bought a glossy cookbook, studying a recipe for beef stewsimple enough.
Whats for dinner? Edward asked that evening.
Beef stew, she said, stirring the pot.
Oh. His voice flattened.
Whats wrong?
Mum always did hers in the slow cooker. Tastes different.
We dont *have* a slow cooker.
Shouldve got one, he muttered.
Dinner passed in silence. Edward ate without enthusiasm, gulping water between bites.
Not enough salt? she asked weakly.
Its not the salt, he sighed. Mum just *knew* how much to add.
Later, Emily stood at the kitchen window, watching lights flicker in neighbouring flats. Other wives were cookingmaybe some struggled too. Maybe their husbands noticed the effort, not just the flaws.
The next Sunday, they visited Margaret, who proudly served her famous steak-and-ale pie.
Delicious! Emily said after a bite. Could you show me how?
Oh, its easy, love, Margaret chuckled. Just good meat, a splash of ale, and a bit of patience.
But the crusthow do you get it so flaky?
Practice, darling. Youll get there.
Edward chewed thoughtfully. Mums is better, he said. Lighter pastry.
Margaret shot him a look. Edward, thats unkind. Emily did wonderfully.
I didnt say it was bad. Just not like yours.
Emilys smile faded. Even with Margarets guidance, shed never measure up.
That night, she examined the leftover pie. It *was* goodjust not Mums good.
Whats tomorrows dinner? Edward asked, grabbing a glass of water.
I dont know yet.
How about that leek-and-potato soup? Mum gave me her recipe.
Alright.
But Emily knewit wouldnt taste like Margarets. Nothing ever would.
As she scribbled a shopping list, a quiet truth settled over her: some comparisons were impossible to win. Love shouldnt come with conditionsor endless contests with ghosts of past meals.
She took a deep breath. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to cook for herselfand let go of needing his approval.
