**Friday, 15th March**
*You cant cook like my mum could.*
The words still sting, even now as I scrub at the stubborn stain on the countertop. I glance at the untouched plateroast chicken, potatoes, a simple salad. All of it barely touched.
*Emily, whats that smell?* James had barely stepped through the door before wrinkling his nose. *Something burnt?*
*Its the roast,* I called from the kitchen, rushing to turn off the hob before the potatoes overcooked. *Dinners nearly ready.*
He wandered in, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up. I mustve looked a sightflour dusted my cheek, my hair slipping loose from its ponytail, the apron splattered with gravy.
*How was work?* I asked, not turning from the sink where I was rinsing lettuce. *Was Thompson being difficult again?*
*No, it was fine.* He peered into the oven, where the chicken sizzled. *Whats this, then?*
*Found the recipe online,* I said, wiping my hands. *French-style roast. Supposed to be simple.*
James gave a noncommittal hum and left to change. I laid the table carefullywhite linen, the good cutlerytrying to make it feel special. Every night, I try something new: new spices, new techniques. I just want him to come home to something nice after his long hours at the office.
*Dinners ready,* I said when he returned.
He served himself without comment. I took only a little, my appetite gone, watching him chew slowly, face unreadable.
*Well?* I finally asked. *Is it alright?*
*Its fine,* he said, still not looking up.
*Just fine?* My voice wavered. *I tried a new recipe”*
He sighed, pushed his plate away. *You dont cook like my mum did. Every meal she made was perfect. This is just food.*
The lump in my throat nearly choked me. *Im learning,* I whispered. *Not everyone gets it right straight away.*
*Mum was feeding five of us by your age,* he said, standing. *No one ever went hungry. And everything tasted *right*.*
He left. The telly flickered on in the lounge. I stared at his platethe dry chicken, the mushy potatoes, the odd-tasting gravy. I *tried*.
Later, after scraping the leftovers into the bin, I thought of my mother-in-law, Margaret. A brilliant cook. Her Sunday roasts were legendary, her pies melted in your mouth. When James first brought me to meet his parents, the table groaned with food.
*My Jamie loves my homemade pasties,* shed said once, kneading dough effortlessly. *I make them every weekendhe freezes them for the week.*
Id watched her hands, mesmerised. It looked so simple. But when I tried, the pastry tore, the filling leaked.
*Mum, teach me how you do it,* I begged once, when we were alone in her kitchen.
Shed laughed. *Cookings from the heart, love. If you care, itll taste good. Recipes dont matter.*
But caring wasnt enough. My meat burned or stayed raw, my cakes sank, my stews were always either too thick or too thin.
*Teas ready,* I said later, setting down the tray.
*Ta.* James took it without looking.
I sat beside him, not really watching the telly, already dreading tomorrows dinnerand the inevitable comparison.
*James,* I ventured, *maybe I could learn from your mum? Properly, I mean.*
*Why?* He frowned. *Shes got her own life.*
*She wouldnt mind. Itd help me.*
*Shes not as young as she was. Besidessome people just have the knack. You dont.*
I said nothing. The words festered.
The next evening, I followed a recipe exactlybeef stew, slow-cooked for hours. The meat was tender, the gravy rich.
James took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. *Not bad,* he said. *But Mum always diced the carrots, not sliced them. And she never fried the onions separately.*
*But its good?* I pressed.
*Its alright. Just not the same.*
That Sunday, Margaret finally let me help with her famous pasties. She guided mekneading the dough lightly, undercooking the filling so it finished in the oven. Mine were lopsided, but she praised me anyway.
*Well?* she asked as we sat down to eat.
*Theyre lovely,* I said eagerly.
James nodded. *Yeah. But Mums pastrys lighter.*
She shot him a look. *Jamie, thats unkind. Emily did well.*
*Didnt think she did poorly. Just not like yours.*
Later, at home, I stared at leftover pasties on the counter. Even with Margarets guidance, it wasnt enough.
*Em,* James called from the lounge, *whats for dinner tomorrow?*
*I dont know yet.*
*Could you do a proper potato salad? Mum was saying how she makes hers.*
*Ill try.*
But I already knew. However hard I try, itll never taste like his mothers.
I sigh, reach for a notepad. *Potatoes. Eggs. Mayonnaise.* Maybe if I buy the best ingredients, itll be closer.
But I dont think hell ever say its *right*.
