**Diary Entry 12th March**
“Learn to cook, then we’ll talk,” James said before leaving to have dinner at his mums.
Emily froze by the stove, wooden spatula in hand. The pan held burnt potatoes, smoking slightly, while water bubbled in a potshed 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. “Every day its the sameovercooked, under-seasoned, or inedible. Im embarrassed when my mates at work talk about what their wives cook.”
The door slammed, leaving Emily alone in the kitchen with the mess. 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 married, James had said different things. Back then, he worked late, and Emily was finishing her degree. His mum, Margaret, who lived next door, cooked for him. After the wedding, Margaret kept feeding him, and Emily was relievedshe could focus on her dissertation.
Then Emily landed a job at a bank, her salary grew, and James bragged about his successful wife. But Margaret still cooked. Occasionally, Emily tried on weekends, but it never went well. James teased her gently before they headed to his mums for Sunday roast.
“Dont fret, love,” Margaret would say, patting Emilys head. “Not every womans made for the kitchen. Youve other talents.”
Everything changed three months ago. Margaret broke her hip, was hospitalised, then sent to a care home for rehab. James suddenly realised his wife couldnt cook. At all.
The first weeks, they survived on takeaways and ready meals. But James quickly tired of it.
“Em, why not try cooking yourself?” hed asked softly at first. “Get a cookbook, watch videos. Ill help.”
Emily bought ingredients, studied recipes, and tried. But her hands fumbled, her mind cluttered with work stress. She mixed up salt and sugar, forgot timings, misjudged proportions. The meals were… odd.
James ate silently at first, then criticised, until todaywhen he snapped.
Emily stood, gazing out the window. Lights were on in Margarets flat. Shed returned from rehab last week but still walked gingerly. Probably now, she and James sat at her cosy table, eating her famous shepherds pie.
“What do I do?” Emily whispered to her reflection.
Next day, she left work early, bought chicken and veg, and followed an online recipe meticulously. She washed her hands like a surgeon prepping for theatre.
She seasoned the chicken, stuffed it with apples, chopped potatoes roughly, drizzled oileverything laid out on the tray.
“Forty minutes at 180 degrees,” she muttered, sliding it into the oven.
James came home to the smell of roasting chicken. He peeked into the lounge suspiciously.
“Whats this?”
“Dinner,” Emily said, setting the table. “Try it.”
The chicken was dry, the potatoes charred underneathbut edible. James chewed silently as Emily watched his face.
“Well?” she finally asked.
“Its alright,” he shrugged. “Mums is juicier.”
Emily nodded. Shed never match Margaret, but it was a start.
Two days later, she attempted spaghetti bolognese. The mince was overdone, the pasta mushybut James finished his plate and asked for seconds.
“Getting better,” he admitted.
That weekend, Emily tackled beef stewa childhood memory of her mums rich, fragrant version. She bought beef, carrots, onions, spent three hours comparing recipes, simmering the meat slowly, stirring patiently.
“Em, whats all this?” James gaped at the kitchen chaos.
“Beef stew. Ready by evening.”
“Seriously?” His tone held something newnot mockery, but interest.
It worked. Not like her mums or Margarets, but proper stewthick, steaming, with crusty bread. James had two helpings.
“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 persisted. Even after exhausting days, shed stand at the hob.
James stopped eating at his mums nightly. Sometimes, theyd share dinner at home, and hed even compliment her.
“Remember your first attempt at risotto?” he laughed one evening. “Gluey rice, charred onions.”
“Dont remind me,” she groaned. “Its decent now.”
“Better than decent,” he agreed. “Mum said so too.”
Emily stiffened. Last Sunday, shed brought her risotto to Margarets. The praise had sounded forced.
“James… what does your mum really think about me cooking?”
He hesitated. “Says its good. That a wife should cook.”
Emily sensed the evasion. Margaret never spoke bluntly but made her opinions quietly clear.
On Saturday, they visited Margaret. Her signature dishes covered the table: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, trifle.
“Sit, loves,” she fussed. “James, youve lost weight. Emily not feeding you?”
“Mum, dont,” James waved her off. “Emily cooks brilliantly now. You should try her stew!”
“I might,” Margaret nodded. “Though all those internet recipesthats not proper cooking. Needs heart, not instructions.”
Emilys cheeks burned. She ate silently, knowing shed never cook “with heart” like Margaret.
“Margaret, could you teach me your roast beef?” she asked softly.
Margaret blinked. “Teach you? Love, youve your career, your money. Why bother?”
“I want to learn.”
“Well, if you insist. But it takes years. Not everyones got the touch.”
On Monday, Emily took leave and visited Margaret.
“Right,” Margaret said, rolling sleeves. “First, the cut of beef matters…”
They spent hours selecting meat, prepping veg, timing the oven. Margaret corrected every step: “No, slice thinner, dear… More thyme… Press the seasoning in.”
Emilys roast wasnt as perfect, but edible.
“Not bad for a first go,” Margaret said. “Bit heavy on the salt, though.”
At home, Emily reattempted it. The kitchen was a disaster, but the roast turned out. James devoured it.
“Nearly like Mums,” he said. “Just missing… something.”
Emily knew that was high praise.
A month later, cooking daily, Emily had her own tricks. She sensed when meat was done, when veg needed pulling off the heat. James no longer went to Margarets. Hed come home asking, “Whats for dinner?”
Once, he brought a colleague.
“Tom, meet Emily. Shes a wizard in the kitchen,” James boasted.
Emily served roast chicken, gravy, steamed greens. Tom ate heartily.
“Youre lucky, mate,” he said. “My wife only does microwave meals.”
Afterwards, James hugged her.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Youre amazing. Im proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For learning. For not giving up when I was a prat. I was wrong.”
Emily leaned into him, recalling that awful night with burnt potatoes. Now, it felt like the start of something.
“I actually enjoy cooking,” she admitted. “At first it was hard, but now… especially seeing you eat happily.”
“Me too,” James smiled. “Home feels different. Warmer.”
On Sunday, they visited Margaret. Emily brought an apple pie shed baked all Saturday.
“Oh, youve baked?” Margaret eyed it. “Lets see.”
They had tea and pie. Margaret chewed thoughtfully.
“Well?” James pressed.
“Nice,” she finally said. “Pastrys a tad thick, apples couldve been sweeter. But not bad.”
Emily knew that was Margarets version of a rave review.
“Thanks for teaching me the roast,” Emily said. “James loves it.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Margaret waved. “Never too late to learn, if youve the will.”
At home, James said, “Mum admitted she liked your pie more than she let on. Shes just used to ruling the kitchen. Now shes got competition.”
“Competition?” Emily laughed. “Im nowhere near her.”
“Youre not,” James said. “Youve your own style. Different, but just as good.”
Emily realised he was right. She wasnt just copying recipes anymoreshe was improvising, trusting instinct.
“Tomorrow, Ill try fish,” she said. “Found a great recipe.”
“Ill help,” James offered. “Always wanted to learn filleting.”
Emily stared. Hed never volunteered before.
“Really?”
“Course. Were a team.”
Next day, they baked salmon with lemon and herbs togetherJames
