«You can’t cook like my mum,» declared James, pushing his plate away untouched.
«Emma, whats that smell?» he asked the moment he stepped through the front door, hanging his coat on the hook and sniffing the air suspiciously. «Something burnt?»
«It’s just the roast chicken,» Emma called from the kitchen, frantically turning off the hob under a saucepan of potatoes. «Dinners nearly ready!»
James wandered in to find his wife flustered at the sink, rinsing salad leaves. Her hair was a mess, a smear of flour dusted one cheek, and her apron was splattered with something suspiciously orange.
«How was work?» she asked without turning around. «Did Mr. Thompson give you grief again?»
«No, same as usual. You?» He peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled in some questionable sauce. «Whats this meant to be?»
«Found it onlineFrench-style chicken,» Emma said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. «Looked simple enough.»
James gave a noncommittal hum and retreated to change. Emma finished setting the table with her best linen, hoping to impress him after a long day. Shed been experimenting with recipes, buying fancy spices, trying to make something new each night.
«Come eat, love,» she called when he reappeared in his joggers.
They sat across from each other. Emma watched anxiously as he piled chicken, potatoes, and salad onto his plate. She barely took any herselftoo nervous to eat.
James chewed methodically, face unreadable, occasionally sipping his tea.
«Well?» she finally burst out. «Is it nice?»
«Its alright,» he said, not looking up.
«Just alright?» Her shoulders slumped. «I tried a new recipe, I thought»
He sighed and set his fork down. «You dont cook like my mum. Her meals were proper celebrations. This is just food.»
Emma swallowed hard, blinking fast.
«Im learning,» she whispered. «Not everyone gets it right straight away.»
«Mum was feeding five kids by your age,» James said, standing. «No one ever went hungry. And it was always delicious.»
He left for the telly. Emma stared at his half-finished plate. The chicken *was* a bit dry, the potatoes overdone, the sauce oddly tangy. But shed tried so hard.
She scraped the leftovers into the bin, plates clattering in the sink.
«Emma, you making tea?» James shouted from the living room.
«Yep,» she replied flatly.
While the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *could* cookher Sunday roasts were legendary, her pies melted in your mouth. When Emma first met James parents, Margaret had laid out a feast.
«My Jamie loves my shepherds pie,» shed said, effortlessly mashing potatoes. «I make extra for his freezer. Lasts him the week.»
Emma had tried replicating it. The result was closer to wallpaper paste.
«Mum, could you teach me?» shed asked once.
«Oh, love, its easy! Just follow your heart,» Margaret had laughed.
But love wasnt enough. Emmas gravy split, her Yorkshire puddings sagged, her pastry was either rock-hard or raw.
«Teas ready,» she said, setting down a tray of digestives.
James grunted thanks, eyes glued to the telly.
The next evening, Emma attempted a beef stew, slow-cooked all day. The meat fell apart, the vegetables held their shapeshe was proud.
James took a bite. «Not bad. But Mum does it differently. Her carrots are diced, not sliced. And she browns the onions with the meat.»
«But its tasty, right?»
«Yeah. Just not the same.»
Emmas heart sank. *Again*.
On Sunday, they visited Margaret, who finally gave Emma a pie-making lesson. The dough was soft, the filling fragrant.
«See? Youve got the knack!» Margaret smiled as they ate.
«Nice,» James conceded. «But Mums pastrys lighter.»
Margaret shot him a look. «Jamie, dont be rude. Emma did brilliantly.»
That night, Emma stared at the leftover pies. They *were* good. But «good» wasnt «Mums.»
«Em, fancy making a proper trifle tomorrow?» James asked later. «Mum gave me her sherry tip.»
«Sure,» she sighed.
She knew it wouldnt measure up. Nothing ever did.
As she scribbled a shopping list, she wonderedwere there other wives out there, scraping burnt offerings into the bin, while their husbands pined for Mums cooking? Or was she just unlucky?
With a quiet sigh, she added custard powder to the list. Maybe this time. Maybe.
