“Learn to cook, then well talk,” said James, heading out to his mums for dinner.
Emily stood frozen by the stove, wooden spatula in hand. The frying pan held a smoking pile of burnt roast potatoes, while the pot bubbled awayshed forgotten to add the pasta.
“James, wait!” she called, but he was already pulling on his jacket. “Let me make something else!”
“Em, Im tired of this circus,” he turned, zipping up. “Same thing every day. Either its overcooked, under-seasoned, or downright inedible. Im embarrassed when the lads at work talk about what their wives cook for them.”
The door slammed, and Emily was left alone in the kitchen with the culinary disaster. She turned off the hob, slumped at the table, and buried her face in her hands. Tears stung, but she held them back.
Five years ago, when they got married, James had said very different things. Back then, he worked late, and Emily was finishing her degree. His mum, Margaret, who lived next door, did the cooking. After the wedding, she kept feeding her son, and Emily was relievedshe could focus on her dissertation.
Then Emily landed a job at a bank, her career took off, and James bragged about his successful wife. Margaret still cooked. Emily occasionally tried on weekends, with mixed results. James teased her gently, then theyd go to his mums for Sunday roast.
“Dont fret, love,” Margaret would say, patting Emilys shoulder. “Not every womans meant for the kitchen. Youve got other talents.”
Everything changed three months ago. Margaret broke her hip, ended up in hospital, then went to a rehab centre. James suddenly realised his wife couldnt cook. At all.
At first, they lived on ready meals and takeaways. But James quickly grew tired of it.
“Em, why not try cooking yourself?” he asked gently at first. “Get a recipe book, watch videos. Ill help.”
Emily bought ingredients, studied recipes, and tried. But her hands fumbled, her mind was full of spreadsheets, and she mixed up salt and sugar. The food was odd.
James ate silently at first, then started commenting, until one day he snapped.
Emily went to the window. Next door, Margarets lights were onshed returned from rehab last week but still walked with a stick. Probably sitting there now with James, eating her famous shepherds pie.
“What do I do?” Emily whispered to her reflection.
The next day, she left work early, bought chicken and veg, and found a simple roast recipe. She washed her hands like a surgeon prepping for theatre.
Rubbed the chicken with salt and herbs, stuffed it with apples, chopped potatoes into chunks. Into the oven at 180 degrees for 40 minutes.
James came home to the smell of roasting chicken. He peeked into the kitchen warily.
“Whats this?”
“Dinner,” Emily said, setting the table. “Try it.”
The chicken was dry, the potatoes charred underneath, but edible. James chewed quietly while Emily studied his face.
“Well?”
“Its alright,” he shrugged. “Mums is juicier.”
Emily nodded. She knew she wasnt Margaret, but it was a start.
Two days later, she attempted spaghetti bolognese. The mince was overdone, the pasta mushy, but James finished his plate and asked for seconds.
“Getting better,” he admitted.
That weekend, she tackled beef stewa childhood memory of her mums rich, fragrant version. She bought beef, carrots, onions, spent three hours comparing recipes.
“Em, whats happening in here?” James gaped at the battlefield of pans.
“Beef stew. Ready by tonight.”
“Seriously?” His tone held something newnot mockery, but interest.
It worked. Not like her mums or Margarets, but proper stew. James had two bowls.
“Good,” he said simply. “Really good.”
Emily smiled for the first time in weeks.
Gradually, she found her rhythm. Tried new dishes, refined old ones. Some failed, but she kept going. Even after long days at the bank, shed stand at the hob.
James stopped going to his mums nightly. Sometimes they ate together, and he even complimented her.
“Remember your first attempt at risotto?” he laughed one evening. “Turned into glue, and the mushrooms were charcoal.”
“Dont remind me,” she groaned. “I can do it properly now.”
“Better than properly,” he said. “Even Mum said it was nice.”
Emily paused. Theyd visited last Sunday, and shed brought the risotto. Margaret had praised itstiffly.
“James what does your mum really think about me cooking?”
He hesitated. “Says its good. That a wife should know how.”
Emily sensed the catch. Margaret never said things outright, but her meanings were clear.
That Saturday, they went for lunch at Margarets. The table groaned with her signature dishes: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, trifle.
“Sit down, loves,” she fussed. “James, youve lost weight. Emily not feeding you?”
“Mum, come on,” James waved her off. “Emily cooks brilliantly now. You should try her stew!”
“I might,” Margaret nodded. “Though cooking from internet recipes isnt proper. Needs heart, not instructions.”
Emilys cheeks burned. She ate quietly, knowing shed never have Margarets instinct.
“Margaret, could you teach me your roast beef?” she asked softly.
Margaret blinked. “Teach you? Darling, youve got your career. Why fuss with kitchens?”
“I want to learn.”
“Well, if you insist,” Margaret sighed. “But it takes years. Not everyones got the touch.”
On Monday, Emily took leave and went over. Margaret was surprised but welcoming.
“Right, lets begin,” she said. “But James loves my beef. Hes used to the taste.”
They started with the meat cut. Margaret lectured on marbling, ageing, trimming.
“Pre-packaged wont do,” she tutted. “God knows whats in it. Must do it yourself.”
Emily listened, memorised. Margaret demonstrated soaking breadcrumbs, slicing onions just so.
“Now the secret,” Margaret rolled up her sleeves. “Knead the seasoning in slow, with love. Feel it change under your hands.”
Emily tried, but her motions were clumsy.
“No rush, dear,” Margaret corrected. “Good food wont be hurried.”
They roasted, basted, rested. Margaret nitpicked throughout.
“Yours is lopsided,” she sighed. “Presentation affects flavour.”
Emilys beef was edible but uneven. They ate it with potatoes.
“Not bad for first try,” Margaret judged. “Bit heavy on the salt. And your oven runs hot.”
Emily nodded, mentally noting adjustments.
At home, she replicated it. The kitchen was a mess, but the beef worked. James devoured it.
“Almost like Mums,” he said. “Maybe missing something, but close.”
Emily knew that was high praise.
A month passed. Emily cooked daily, experimenting, refining. She developed favourites, little tricks. She learned to judge doneness by sight.
James stopped visiting Margaret for meals. Hed come home asking, “Whats for dinner?”
Once, he brought a colleague.
“Tom, meet Emily. Shes an amazing cook,” he boasted.
She served stew, roast veg, treacle tart. Tom ate heartily.
“Youre lucky, mate,” he told James. “My missus only does microwave meals.”
After he left, James hugged Emily.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Youre brilliant. Im proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For learning. For not giving up when I was a prat. I was wrong.”
Emily leaned into him, remembering that awful evening with the burnt potatoes. Back then, her world felt broken. Now she saw it as a beginning.
“Actually, I like cooking,” she admitted. “It was hard at first, but now its fun. Especially seeing you enjoy it.”
“Me too,” James smiled. “Feels different at home now. Warmer.”
That Sunday, they visited Margaret. Emily brought an apple crumbleher Saturday project.
“Oh, youve baked,” Margaret said thinly. “Lets see then.”
They ate it with tea. Margaret chewed, face unreadable.
“Well, Mum?” James pressed.
“Its fine,” she finally said. “Pastrys overworked, could use more apples. But not bad.”
Emily knew that was praise. From Margaret, it was glowing.
“Thank you for teaching me the beef,” Emily said. “James loves it now.”
“Oh, posh,” Margaret waved. “Never too late to learn, I suppose.”
At home, James said, “Mum actually loved your crumble. She just wont admit it. Used to being the kitchen queen. Now shes got competition.”
“Competition?” Emily laughed. “I
