**September 12th, 2023**
“Learn to cook, then well talk,” said my husband, Daniel, as he grabbed his coat and left to have dinner at his mums.
Emily stood frozen by the stove, a wooden spatula in hand. In the frying pan, burnt potatoes smoked, and in the pot, water bubbledshe had forgotten to add the pasta.
“Dan, wait!” she called after him, but he was already zipping up his jacket. “Let me make you something else!”
“Em, Im tired of this circus,” he turned, shaking his head. “Every day its the same. Either overdone, under-seasoned, or outright 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 her culinary disaster. She turned off the hob, slumped at the table, and buried her face in her hands. Tears stung, but she swallowed them back.
Five years ago, when theyd married, Daniel had said very different things. Back then, he worked late, and Emily was finishing her degree. His mum, Margaret, who lived next door, had done the cooking. After the wedding, Margaret kept feeding her son, and Emily was relievedit meant she could focus on her dissertation.
Later, she landed a job at a bank, her salary grew, and Daniel bragged about his successful wife. But Margaret still cooked. Emily occasionally tried on weekends, with little success. Daniel teased her gently before theyd head to his mums for Sunday roast.
“Dont fret, love,” Margaret would say, patting Emilys shoulder. “Not every womans born for the kitchen. Youve got other gifts.”
Everything changed three months ago. Margaret broke her hip, was hospitalised, then sent to a rehab centre. Daniel suddenly realised his wife couldnt cook. At all.
At first, they survived on takeaways and ready meals. But Daniel soon grew tired of it.
“Em, just give it a go,” he pleaded at first. “Get a cookbook or watch a tutorial. Ill help.”
Emily bought ingredients, studied recipes, tried her best. But her hands fumbled, her mind distracted by work. She mixed up salt and sugar, lost track of time, misjudged measurements. The results were odd.
Daniel ate silently at first, then began commenting, until todaywhen he snapped.
Emily stood, walked to the window. Margarets flat in the next building was lit. Shed returned from rehab last week but still walked with a cane. Maybe right now, she and Daniel sat at her cosy kitchen table, tucking into her famous roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.
“What do I do?” Emily whispered to her reflection.
The next day, she left work early, bought chicken and veg, found a simple roast recipe, and wrote down every step. She washed her hands like a surgeon prepping for theatre.
She rubbed the chicken with salt and herbs, stuffed it with apples, chopped potatoes and onions, drizzled them with oil. “Forty minutes at 180 degrees,” she muttered, sliding the tray into the oven.
Daniel returned to the smell of roasting chicken. He peeked into the kitchen cautiously.
“Whats this?” he asked, wary.
“Dinner,” Emily said, setting the table. “Try it.”
The chicken was dry, the potatoes burnt at the edges, but edible. Daniel chewed silently as Emily watched his face.
“Well?” she finally asked.
“Not bad,” 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 Daniel cleared his plateeven asked for seconds.
“Getting better,” he admitted.
That weekend, she tackled a Sunday roast. Beef, potatoes, gravythe works. Three hours of cross-referencing recipes, adjusting timings.
“Em, whats all this?” Daniel stared at the chaos.
“Roast dinner,” she said, stirring the gravy. “Done by six.”
“Seriously?” His tone held something newnot mockery, but intrigue.
It worked. Not Margarets level, but proper roast beef. Daniel had two helpings.
“Good,” he said simply. “Really good.”
Emily smiled for the first time in weeks.
Gradually, she found her rhythm. New ingredients, new recipes. Not all worked, but she persisted. Even after exhausting shifts, shed cook.
Daniel stopped going to Margarets nightly. Some evenings, they ate togetherand he even complimented her.
“Remember your first attempt at shepherds pie?” he laughed once. “Mash like glue, mince like charcoal.”
“Dont remind me,” she groaned. “Its decent now.”
“Better than decent,” he agreed. “Mum said so too.”
Emily paused. Theyd visited last Sundayshed brought her pie. Margaret had praised it stiffly.
“Dan, what does your mum really think about me cooking?”
He hesitated. “Says its good. That a wife should cook.”
Emily sensed the subtext. Margaret never spoke bluntly, but her meanings were clear.
Saturday lunch at Margarets. Her signature spread: roast chicken, buttery mash, trifle.
“Sit, loves,” she fussed. “Dan, youre thin. Emily not feeding you?”
“Mum, come on,” Dan waved her off. “Emily cooks brilliantly now. You should try her roast!”
“I should,” Margaret nodded. “Though its all online recipes these days. Not proper cookingjust following steps. Cookings from the heart.”
Emilys cheeks burned. She ate quietly, certain shed never cook “from the heart” like Margaret.
“Margaret, could you teach me? Your chicken?”
Margaret blinked. “Teach you? Love, youve got your career, your life. Why fuss in the kitchen?”
“Id like to learn.”
“Well, if you insist. But it takes years. Not everyones cut out for it.”
On Monday, Emily took leave and visited. Margaret, surprised but hospitable, demonstratedselecting meat, seasoning, timing.
“Shop-bought mince? Never. Who knows whats in it?”
Emily listened, memorised. Margaret corrected her chopping, her kneading.
“Patience, love,” she chided. “Rushing ruins it.”
Emilys chicken wasnt as golden, but edible. Margaret gave a tight smile. “Not bad. Bit salty. Heat too high.”
At home, Emily replicated itmessy, but passable. Dan approved.
“Almost like Mums. Just missing something. But close.”
Emily knew that was high praise.
Months passed. Emily cooked daily, experimenting, refining. She developed instinctswhen meat was done, when veg was perfect.
Dan stopped visiting Margaret for dinner. One evening, he brought a colleague.
“Tom, meet Emily. Best cook I know.”
Emily served roast, chicken, salad. Tom devoured it.
“Lucky man, Dan. My wife only microwaves.”
Afterwards, Dan hugged her.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Youre amazing. Proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For learning. For not giving up when I was a git. I was wrong.”
Emily remembered that first burnt attempt. It felt like the endbut was the start of something.
“I enjoy it now,” she admitted. “Hard at first, but satisfying. Especially watching you eat.”
“Me too,” Dan smiled. “Feels more like home. Warmer.”
At Sunday lunch, Emily brought apple pieher own. Margaret chewed, expressionless.
“Well?” Dan pressed.
“Good,” Margaret conceded. “Pastry could be lighter, more apples. But nice.”
Emily knew that meant approval.
“Thank you for teaching me,” she said. “Dan loves your recipes.”
“Oh, love,” Margaret waved. “Never too late to learn.”
That evening, Dan said, “Mum actually liked your pie. Shes just used to ruling the kitchen. Now shes got competition.”
“Competition?” Emily laughed. “Im nowhere close.”
“Youre different,” Dan said. “Not worse. Just yours.”
Emily realised he was right. She wasnt copyingshe was creating.
“Fancy fish tomorrow? Found a new recipe.”
“Ill help,” Dan offered. “Never filleted one properly.”
Emily gaped. Hed never volunteered before.
“Really?”
“Course. Were a team.”
Next day, they cooked togetherDan prepping, cleaning. Over dinner, he said, “You know when I said cooking mattered, it wasnt about food.”
“What, then?”
“I wanted us to feel like a family. Thought cooking would do that. But its not the roastits us. Time together. You trying. Me helping.”
Emily nodded. Cooking had changed them.
“So you were right,” she said. “I needed to learnnot to keep you home
