«You can’t cook like my mum,» said James, pushing his plate away untouched.
«Emily, what’s that smell?» he asked the moment he stepped into the flat, hanging his coat on the hook and sniffing the air. «Somethings burnt»
«Its chicken in the oven,» called Emily from the kitchen, quickly turning off the hob under the boiling potatoes. «Itll be ready in a minute!»
James 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. Thompson give you a hard time again?»
«Nah, it was fine. What about you?» He peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled in some sauce. «Whats this recipe?»
«Found it onlineFrench-style chicken. Supposed to be simple but fancy.»
James nodded silently and went to change. Emily finished setting the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the white cloth shed laid out specially. She tried cooking something new every day, experimenting with recipes, buying unusual spicesanything to surprise her husband after his long shifts.
«Sit down, love,» she said when he returned in his pyjamas. «All ready.»
They settled across from each other. Emily watched nervously as James served himself chicken, potatoes, and salad. She barely took any, her appetite gone from worry.
He cut a piece of meat, chewed, his face unreadable. She waited for him to say something, but he just ate in silence, sipping tea now and then.
«Well?» she finally asked. «Is it nice?»
«Its alright,» he said shortly, not looking up.
«Just alright? I tried a new recipe»
James sighed, put his fork down, and looked at her.
«You cant cook like my mum,» he said, leaving most of his food untouched. «Every meal she made was like a feast. This? This is just food.»
Emily felt a lump rise in her throat. She looked down, hiding how much his words stung.
«Im learning,» she said quietly. «Not everyone gets it right straight away»
«Mum was feeding five kids by your age,» James continued, standing up. «No one ever went hungry. And everything was always delicious.»
He left for the living room, switching on the telly. Emily stayed at the table, staring at his nearly full plate. The chicken *was* a bit dry, the potatoes overcooked, the sauce odd. But shed tried so hard.
Clearing up, she scraped the leftovers into the binno one would eat them now. The plates clinked as she stacked them in the sink.
«Em, are you making tea?» James called.
«Yeah,» she replied, though she couldnt be bothered.
While the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *could* cook. Her roast dinners were legendary, her apple pies melted in your mouth. When James first brought Emily home, Margaret laid out a spread so grand it made your head spin.
«My Jamie loves my homemade steak pie,» shed say, rolling pastry in a huge bowl. «I make it every Sundayhe freezes portions for the week.»
Emily had watched, amazed, as Margarets hands moved effortlessly, shaping perfect crusts, folding fillings neatly. It looked so simple. But when Emily tried, her pastry tore, her fillings leaked.
«Mum, can you teach me to cook like you?» shed asked once when they were alone in the kitchen.
«Oh, love, its nothing special,» Margaret had laughed. «Cookings all heart. Love your husband, and the foodll taste good. Recipes dont matter much.»
But love wasnt enough. Emilys meats burned or stayed raw, her porridge was lumpy, her cakes never rose.
«Teas ready,» she said, setting cups and biscuits on the coffee table.
«Ta,» James muttered, eyes on the TV.
Emily sat beside him but didnt watch. She wondered what shed make tomorrowand what criticism shed hear.
«James, maybe I could visit your mum?» she suggested. «Learn her roast recipe.»
«Why? Shes busy.»
«She wouldnt mind. Itd help me.»
«Shes not getting youngerits hard for her to teach. Besides, shes got a *gift*. You» He shrugged.
Emily stayed quiet. A heavy, prickly feeling settled in her chest. Was she really such a hopeless wife?
The next day, she bought a thick cookbook with glossy photos. That evening, she followed a beef stew recipe exactly.
«Whats for dinner?» James asked when he got home.
«Beef stew with veg.»
«Oh. Right.» His tone was flat.
«Whats wrong?»
«Nothing. JustMum always did hers in the slow cooker. Tastes different.»
«We dont *have* one.»
«Shouldve bought one, then.»
Dinner was silent. James ate without enthusiasm, washing bites down with water. Emily knew shed failed again but couldnt figure out how.
«Not enough salt?» she ventured.
«Its not the salt. Mum just *knew* how much to put in. She had the touch.»
Later, Emily stood at the kitchen window, watching lights in other flats. Jamess words echoed*the touch, the gift, the way Mum did it*. Were some women just born unable to cook?
That weekend, they visited Margaret.
«Jamie, lookyour favourite shepherds pie!» She opened the oven, releasing savoury steam.
«Mum, you shouldnt have gone to trouble,» James said, though he was clearly pleased.
At the table, Margaret beamed as he devoured seconds. Emily took a bitetender meat, creamy mash, perfect seasoning.
«Margaret, how do you make it so good?» she asked.
«Oh, posh! Good meat, a knob of butter, bit of love. Thats all.»
«But the measurements?»
«By the eye, love. Years of practice.»
Emilys heart sank. *The eye, the touch*things she didnt have.
«Mum, remember your treacle pudding?» James said. «Still dream about it.»
«Course I do! Made it every Sunday. You lot scraped the bowl clean.»
«Do you still bake it?» Emily asked.
«Not now. Jamies hardly here, and its too much for one.»
«Mum, maybe teach Em? Her puddings never turn out.»
Emily flushed. Humiliation burnedwhy did he say that in front of her?
«Nothing to teach!» Margaret waved a hand. «Just get the batter right.»
«Mine never rises.»
«Maybe old baking powder. Or milk too cold.»
«Could we try together sometime?» Emily asked hesitantly.
«Course, love! Come early one Saturday, well make a day of it.»
But Saturdays came and wentwork, errands, bad weather. Emily kept cooking, kept hearing *not like Mums*.
One morning, she woke early, set beef and ale stew in the slow cooker. All day, she imagined Jamess delight when he smelled it.
«Whats that?» he asked, stepping inside.
«Slow-cooked stew. Been going all day.»
She served him a generous portiontender meat, soft veg, rich gravy.
He chewed thoughtfully.
«Not bad. But Mum always diced the carrots. And she didnt brown the onions first.»
«But its nice, yeah?»
«Its fine. Just not the same.»
Emilys chest tightened. *Again*. Shed tried *everything*expensive ingredients, hours of prep, cookbooks, videos.
«James, what if we just ordered takeaway sometimes?» she blurted.
«What? *Home* cookings what matters. Its family.»
«But if I cant»
«You *can*. Just try harder.»
*Harder how?* She already spent half her life in the kitchen.
That Sunday, Margaret finally showed her how to make treacle pudding.
«Right, love, you sift the flourgently! Too much and its stodgy.»
Emily followed every stepmeasuring syrup, whisking eggs, folding batter. The pudding rose golden, smelling of caramel and comfort.
«Well?» Margaret asked as they ate.
«Its lovely!» Emily said.
«Mm,» James agreed. «But Mums is fluffier.»
Margaret gave him a look.
«James, thats rude. Emily did grand.»
«Didnt say it was bad. Just not like yours, Mum.»
Emily stared at her plate. Even with Margarets help, she couldnt measure up.
At home that night, she studied the leftover pudding. It *was* goodbut not good enough. James wanted his childhood meals, his mothers magic.
«Em, whats for dinner tomorrow?» he asked, fetching water.
«Dunno yet.»
«Could you do coronation chicken? Mum said hers is dead easy.»
«Sure.»
But she knewit wouldnt taste like Margarets. *Nothing* would.
At the window, she watched neighbours lights flicker. Somewhere, other wives cooked for husbands who didnt compare. Or maybe they *were* comparedand just endured it.
With a sigh, she grabbed a notepad. *Coronation chicken ingredients* Maybe if she bought the best mayo, the freshest curry powder
But deep down, she knew. Perfection wasnt the point. Love shouldnt come with a scorecard.
She put the pen down.
Tomorrow, shed cooknot for praise, not to match someone elses memory. Just because *she* wanted to.
And that, she realised, was enough.
