“You dont cook like my mum does,” declared her husband, pushing his plate away untouched.
“Emma, whats that smell?” asked James as he stepped into their flat, hanging his coat and sniffing the air. “Something burnt?”
“Its roast chicken,” called Emma from the kitchen, hastily turning off the hob under the boiling potatoes. “Dinners almost ready!”
James walked in to find his wife bustling by the sink, rinsing salad leaves. Her hair was tousled, a smear of flour on her cheek, her apron splattered with something orange.
“How was work?” Emma asked without turning. “Did Mr. Thompson give you trouble again?”
“Not really, just the usual. And you?” James peeked into the oven where a chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. “Whats this recipe?”
“Found it onlineFrench-style chicken. Supposed to be simple but fancy.”
James nodded silently and left to change. Emma set the table carefully, arranging plates and cutlery on the white tablecloth shed laid out specially. Shed been trying new recipes every day, experimenting with spices, hoping to surprise him after work.
“Come eat, love,” she called when he returned in his pyjamas.
They sat across from each other. Emma watched nervously as he served himself chicken, potatoes, and salad. She barely took anyher appetite gone from anxiety.
James chewed slowly, his face unreadable. Emma waited for a reaction, but he only sipped his tea in silence.
“Well?” she finally asked. “How is it?”
“Its alright,” he said flatly, eyes on his plate.
“Just *alright*? I tried a new recipe, I thought”
James sighed, setting his fork down. “You dont cook like my mum does. Every meal she made was an event. This” He gestured at the dish. “This is just food.”
Emma swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
“Im learning,” she murmured. “Not everyone gets it right straight away.”
“Mum was feeding five kids by your age,” James said, standing. “No one ever went hungry. And everything always tasted perfect.”
He left for the living room, turning on the telly. Emma sat alone, staring at his barely touched plate. The chicken *was* dry, the potatoes overcooked, the sauce odd. But shed tried so hard.
Clearing the table, she scraped the leftovers into the binno one would eat them now. The clatter of plates echoed her frustration.
“Emma, you making tea?” James called.
“Yeah,” she replied, though she couldnt muster the energy.
As the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *was* a brilliant cookher Sunday roasts legendary, her pies meltingly tender. When James first brought Emma home, Margaret had laid out a feast, saying, *”Our Jamie loves my shepherds pie. I make extra for his freezerlasts him weeks.”*
Emma had watched, mesmerised, as Margarets hands moved effortlesslykneading, rolling, shaping. But when *she* tried, the pastry cracked, the fillings leaked.
Once, shed asked, *”Mum, teach me?”*
Margaret had laughed. *”Cookings from the heart, love. If you care, itll show. Recipes dont matter half as much.”*
But care wasnt enough. Emmas roasts burned, her cakes sank, her sauces split.
“Teas ready,” she said, setting the tray down.
James took his cup without looking up.
The next evening, she attempted a beef stew, slow-cooked all day. The meat was tender, the gravy rich.
“Not bad,” James said after a bite. “But Mum does it differentcarrots diced, not sliced. Onions go in raw, not fried first.”
“But its good, isnt it?” Emma pressed.
“Its fine. Just not hers.”
That night, staring at the darkened windows of neighbouring houses, Emma wondered: *Were other wives out there, straining under the shadow of a mother-in-laws legacy? Or did their husbands see the effort, not the comparison?*
She sighed, reaching for her shopping list. Maybe tomorrows roast potatoes would win his praise.
But deep down, she knewperfection wasnt the recipe. It was being seen.
And that, no cookbook could teach.
