**Diary Entry 12th October**
«You cant cook like my mum,» said James, pushing his plate away untouched.
«Emily, what on earth is that smell?» he asked the moment he stepped through the front door. He hung his coat on the peg and sniffed the air. «Somethings burnt»
«Its roast chicken,» came Emilys voice from the kitchen, where she was frantically turning off the hob under a pot of boiled potatoes. «Itll be ready in a minute!»
James walked in to find his wife bustling by the sink, rinsing lettuce leaves. Her hair was tousled, a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her apron splattered with something orange.
«How was work?» she asked without turning. «Did Harris give you trouble again?»
«Not really. How about you?» James peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. «Whats this recipe?»
«Found it onlinechicken à la something. Supposed to be easy, but looks fancy.»
James nodded silently and left to change. Emily set the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the white linen cloth shed laid out specially. Shed been experimenting with new recipes lately, buying exotic spices, hoping to surprise James after his long days at the office.
«Come eat, love,» she called when he returned in his joggers.
They sat across from each other. Emily watched nervously as James served himself chicken, potatoes, and salad. She barely took anyher appetite gone from anxiety.
He chewed a bite, face unreadable. Emily waited for feedback, but he ate in silence, occasionally sipping his tea.
«Well?» she finally burst. «Is it good?»
«Its alright,» he said flatly, not looking up.
«Just *alright*? I tried really hard»
James sighed, set his fork down, and met her eyes.
«You cant cook like my mum,» he said, leaving most of his meal untouched. «Every meal she made was an event. This» He gestured vaguely. «This is just food.»
Emily felt a lump rise in her throat. She dropped her gaze, hiding how much that stung.
«Im learning,» she murmured. «Not everyone gets it right straight away»
«Mum had five kids to feed by your age,» James interrupted, standing. «No one ever went hungry. And everything was *proper*.»
He left for the living room, turning on the telly. Emily sat staring at his half-finished plate. The chicken *was* dry, the potatoes overcooked, the sauce oddly bland. But shed tried so hard.
Clearing the table, she scraped the leftovers into the bin. The plates clattered as she stacked them in the sink.
«Em, you making tea?» James called.
«I will,» she answered, though she couldnt muster the energy.
Waiting for the kettle, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *could* cook. Her Sunday roasts were legendary, her apple crumbles melted on the tongue. When James first brought Emily home, Margaret had laid out a feast.
«My Jamie loves homemade shepherds pie,» shed said, kneading pastry with practised hands. «I make extra for his freezerlasts him weeks.»
Emily had watched, mesmerised, as Margaret workedeffortless, precise. But when *she* tried, the pastry tore, the filling leaked.
«Mum, teach me?» shed once asked.
«Oh, love, its nothing special,» Margaret had laughed. «Cookings about heart. You love your husband, the rest follows.»
But love wasnt enough. Emilys roasts burnt, her Yorkshire puddings collapsed, her custard curdled.
«Teas ready,» she said, setting a tray beside James.
«Ta,» he said, eyes glued to the telly.
She sat beside him but didnt watch. Tomorrow, shed cook again. Tomorrow, hed say it wasnt like Mums.
One morning, she woke early, tossing beef and veg into the slow cooker. All day, she imagined James walking in to the rich smell of stew.
«That smells decent,» he admitted, tasting it. «But Mum did it different. Her carrots were diced, not sliced. And she browned the meat first.»
«But its nice, isnt it?»
«Its fine. Just not hers.»
That night, over tea, she ventured, «What if we ordered takeaways sometimes?»
«Dont be daft,» James scoffed. «Home-cooked meals are what marriages about.»
«But if I cant»
«You *can*. Just try harder.»
*Harder how?* She already spent hours poring over cookbooks, watching tutorials.
That Sunday, Margaret finally let her assist with a Victoria sponge.
«Gentler with the whisk, love,» Margaret advised. «And dont overmix.»
The cake rose beautifully.
«See? Youve got it!» Margaret beamed.
James took a bite. «Mums is lighter, though.»
Margaret shot him a look. «James, thats unkind. Emily did marvelously.»
«Im just saying»
That night, Emily studied the leftover cake. It *was* goodbut never good *enough*.
As she wrote the grocery list (beef for tomorrows pie, *probably still wrong*), she wondered how many other wives stood at their windows, wondering the same thing.
**Lesson learnt:** Love shouldnt come with a side of comparison. Some recipes cant be copiedand thats alright.
