“You can’t cook like my mum could,” declared her husband, pushing his plate away untouched.
“Emily, what’s that smell?” asked Edward as soon as he stepped inside their terraced house in Manchester. He hung his coat on the peg and sniffed the air. “Somethings burning…”
“Its the roast chicken,” Emily called from the kitchen, hastily turning off the hob where potatoes boiled away. “Itll be ready in a minute!”
Edward walked into the kitchen, where his wife bustled about, rinsing lettuce leaves at the sink. Her hair was tousled, a smudge of flour dusted her cheek, and her apron was splattered with something orange.
“How was work?” Emily asked without turning. “Was Mr. Thompson giving you trouble again?”
“No, it was fine. What about you?” Edward peeked into the oven, where the chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. “Whats this recipe?”
“Found it online,” Emily said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Supposed to be French-style. Looked simple enough.”
Edward gave a noncommittal nod and disappeared to change. Emily finished setting the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the fresh linen cloth shed laid out just for tonight. Shed been trying new recipes latelyadding a pinch of this, a dash of thathoping to surprise him after his long shifts at the factory.
“Come sit, love,” she urged when he returned in his jumper and slippers. “Its all done.”
They took their seats across from each other. Emily watched anxiously as Edward helped himself to chicken, potatoes, and salad. She barely took any for herself, too nervous to eat.
He cut a piece of meat, chewed thoughtfully, his face unreadable. He sipped his tea in silence.
“Well?” she finally asked. “How is it?”
“It’s all right,” he said shortly, not looking up.
“Just all right?” Her heart sank. “I tried a new method…”
Edward sighed, set his fork down, and met her eyes.
“You cant cook like my mum could,” he said, leaving most of his meal untouched. “She made every meal feel like Sunday dinner. This… its just food.”
Emily swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
“Im learning,” she murmured. “No one gets it perfect straight away…”
“Mum had five mouths to feed by your age,” Edward went on, pushing back his chair. “Never a complaint, always delicious.”
He left for the parlour, switching on the telly. Emily sat alone, staring at his half-finished plate. The chicken was a bit dry, the potatoes overcooked, the sauce oddbut shed tried so hard.
Clearing the table, she scraped the leftovers into the bin. The clatter of plates echoed in the quiet kitchen.
“Em, you making tea?” Edward called from the other room.
“Suppose so,” she answered, though she couldnt muster the energy.
While the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman had been a marvel in the kitchenher beef stew legendary, her apple crumble melting on the tongue. When Edward first brought Emily home to Liverpool, Margaret had laid out a spread fit for Christmas.
“My Eddie loves his shepherds pie,” shed said, pressing pastry into a dish. “I make extra so he can take some back.”
Emily had watched her hands move with effortless grace, shaping, stirring, seasoning. It looked so simple. But when she tried at home, the pastry tore, the mince turned to mush.
“Margaret, could you teach me?” shed asked once, when they were alone in the kitchen.
“Oh, love, its nothing special,” Margaret had laughed. “Cookings about the heart. If you care, itll taste right.”
But care wasnt enough. Emilys roasts burned or stayed raw, her Yorkshire puddings sagged, her gravy lumped.
“Teas ready,” she said, carrying the tray into the parlour.
“Ta,” Edward muttered, eyes glued to the football match.
She sat beside him but didnt watch. Tomorrow, shed have to cook again. Tomorrow, hed compare her to his mother once more.
One morning, she woke early and set a beef stew simmering in the slow cooker. All day at work, she imagined Edward walking in to the rich scent of home cooking.
“Whats this?” he asked, stepping inside.
“Beef stew,” she said proudly. “Its been cooking since dawn.”
She ladled him a generous portion. The meat was tender, the carrots still firm, the gravy thick.
Edward took a bite, chewed slowly.
“Not bad,” he said. “But Mum always cubed the carrots, not sliced them. And she added the onions rawgave it a different taste.”
“But its good, isnt it?” Hope flickered in her chest.
“Its fine. Just not the same.”
That night, as she stared out at the darkened street, the neighbours lights twinkling like distant stars, she wonderedwere there other wives out there, failing to measure up to their mothers-in-law? Or had they husbands who praised their efforts instead of holding them to impossible standards?
With a sigh, she reached for her shopping list. Shed try again tomorrow. Maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
