“Can’t cook like my mum, can you?” remarked the husband, pushing his nearly untouched plate away.
“Emily, what on earth is that smell?” asked George the moment he stepped through the front door. He hung his jacket on the peg and sniffed the air suspiciously. “Somethings burnt…”
“Its the roast chicken,” called Emily from the kitchen, hastily turning off the hob under a pot of potatoes. “Dinnerll be ready any minute!”
George wandered into the kitchen, where his wife was bustling about, rinsing salad leaves at the sink. Her hair was tousled, a smudge of flour adorned her cheek, and her apron was splattered with something suspiciously orange.
“How was work?” Emily asked without turning around. “Did Mr. Thompson give you grief again?”
“Nah, not today. Yours?” George peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled unenthusiastically in some questionable sauce. “Whats this recipe, then?”
“Found it online,” Emily said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Supposed to be coq au vinsounded fancy but straightforward.”
George nodded vaguely and disappeared to change. Emily finished setting the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the pristine white tablecloth shed laid out specially. Shed been trying new recipes all weekexotic spices, complicated techniquesanything to impress him after a long day at work.
“Sit down, love,” she called when George reappeared in his joggers. “All ready.”
They settled at the table, Emily watching anxiously as George piled roast chicken, potatoes, and salad onto his plate. She barely took any for herselfnerves had stolen her appetite.
He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then sipped his tea without comment. His face was unreadable.
“Well?” Emily finally burst out. “How is it?”
“Fine,” George said flatly, still staring at his plate.
“Just fine?” She frowned. “I followed a new recipe, I thought”
George sighed, set down his fork, and levelled her with a look.
“You just dont cook like my mum,” he declared. “Her meals were proper feasts. This? This is just… food.”
Emily swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat.
“Im still learning,” she murmured. “Not everyone gets it perfect straight away…”
“Mum had five kids to feed by your age,” George continued, standing up. “Never once did we go hungry. And everything was always spot-on.”
He retreated to the living room and flicked on the telly. Emily stayed at the table, staring at his barely touched plate. The chicken was dry, the potatoes mushy, 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 in the sink echoed her frustration.
“Em, make us a cuppa, will you?” George called.
“Right,” she said, though she couldnt muster the enthusiasm.
As the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman was a culinary legendher Sunday roasts were the stuff of family lore, her pastry melted like butter. When George first brought Emily home to meet his parents, Margaret had laid out a spread fit for royalty.
“My Georgie loves my homemade pies,” shed said, kneading dough with practised ease. “I bake him a batch every fortnightlasts him the week.”
Emily had watched in awe as Margarets hands transformed flour and butter into perfect pastry. It looked effortlessuntil Emily tried it herself, producing sad, lumpy disasters that crumbled apart.
“Mum, teach me how you do it,” shed begged once while they were alone in the kitchen.
“Oh, its nothing special, love,” Margaret had laughed. “Cookings all heart, isnt it? You love your man, the foodll taste right. Recipes hardly matter.”
But love, it turned out, wasnt enough. Emilys roasts burnt or stayed raw, her cakes sank, and her Yorkshire puddings were more like rubber.
“Teas up,” she said, setting a tray with biscuits on the coffee table.
“Ta,” George muttered, eyes glued to the telly.
Emily sat beside him but didnt register the film. She was already dreading tomorrows dinnerand the inevitable verdict: “Not like Mums.”
“George,” she ventured, “maybe I could visit your mum? Get her to teach me her roast potatoes?”
“Why bother?” He shrugged. “Shes busy enough.”
“She wouldnt mind. Itd help me.”
“Mums not as young as she was. Dont need her fussing over you. Besides” He gestured vaguely. “Shes just got the knack. You well.”
Emily said nothing. A heavy, prickly weight settled in her chest. Was she really that hopeless?
The next day, she splurged on a fancy cookbook with glossy photos. That evening, she tackled beef stewnothing complicated.
“Whats for dinner?” George asked, shrugging off his coat.
“Beef stew,” she said, stirring the pot.
“Oh. Right.” His face fell.
“Whats wrong?”
“Nothing. JustMum always did hers in the slow cooker. Tastes different.”
“We dont have one,” Emily said weakly.
“Shouldve got one, then.”
Dinner was silent. George picked at his food, washing it down with water. Emily knew shed failed again but couldnt pinpoint how. Shed followed the recipe exactly.
“Not enough salt?” she offered.
“Its not the salt,” George sighed. “Mum justknew. Didnt need measuring cups.”
Later, Emily stared out the kitchen window, watching lights flicker in neighbouring houses. Somewhere, other wives were cookingmaybe some were just as frustrated, maybe others had husbands who actually noticed the effort.
On Sunday, they visited Margaret, who insisted Emily help with her famous apple crumble.
“Watch me, lovedoughs delicate, see?” Margaret guided her hands.
The crumble turned out beautifullygolden, crisp, fragrant.
“Well?” Margaret beamed as they ate.
“Its lovely!” Emily said.
George nodded. “Yeah, nice. But Mums is flakier.”
Margaret shot him a look. “Georgie, dont be daft. Emily did grand!”
“Just saying yours is still better.”
That night, Emily studied the leftover crumble. It was deliciousbut not enough. Nothing ever was.
“Em, whats for dinner tomorrow?” George asked, rummaging in the fridge.
“Dunno yet.”
“Mum mentioned her shepherds pie recipe. Fancy giving it a go?”
“Sure,” Emily said flatly.
But she already knew: it wouldnt taste like Margarets. Nothing ever would. Not the shepherds pie, not the roast, not even the bloody beans on toast.
She exhaled and reached for her shopping list. Maybe if she bought organic mince, itd help. Though at this point, she wasnt holding her breath for praise.
