**Diary Entry 14th November**
“You cant cook like my mum,” my husband said, pushing the plate away untouched.
“Emma, whats that smell?” asked John as soon as he stepped through the front door. He hung his coat on the peg and sniffed the air. “Somethings burning”
“Its roast chicken,” Emma called back from the kitchen, hurriedly turning off the stove under a pot of boiling potatoes. “Dinners nearly ready!”
John walked into the kitchen, where his wife was bustling around the sink, rinsing salad leaves. Her hair was tousled, a smudge of flour dusted her cheek, and her apron was splattered with something orange.
“How was work?” Emma asked without turning around. “Was Walter giving you trouble again?”
“Not really, just the usual. What about you?” John peered into the oven, where the chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. “What recipe is this?”
“Found it online,” Emma said, wiping her hands on a tea towel before opening the oven wider. “Chicken à la king. Looked simple enough.”
John nodded silently and left to change. Emma finished setting the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the white linen cloth shed laid out specially. Shed been trying new recipes every dayexperimenting with spices, hoping to surprise him after work.
“Come sit, love,” she said when he returned in his lounge clothes.
They sat across from each other. Emma watched anxiously as John helped himself to chicken, potatoes, and salad. She barely took any for herselfher appetite had vanished.
John cut a piece of meat, chewed slowly. His face was unreadable. Emma waited for a reaction, but he just ate quietly, sipping tea between bites.
“Well?” she finally asked. “How is it?”
“Alright,” he said shortly, not looking up.
“Just alright? I tried a new recipe”
John sighed, setting his fork down.
“You dont cook like my mum,” he said, leaving most of his plate untouched. “Her meals were always something special. This” He gestured at the dish. “This is just food.”
Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. She looked down, hiding the sting.
“Im learning,” she whispered. “Not everyone gets it right straight away”
“Mum was feeding five kids at your age,” John went on, standing up. “And no one ever went hungry. More than thatit was always delicious.”
He left for the living room, turning on the telly. Emma sat there, staring at his half-eaten meal. The chicken *was* a bit dry, the potatoes overcooked, the sauce oddly flavoured. But shed tried so hard.
Clearing the plates, she scraped the leftovers into the bin. No one would eat them now. The dishes clattered as she stacked them in the sink.
“Emma, you making tea?” John called from the other room.
“Yes,” she answered, though she didnt feel like it.
While the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *could* cook. Her Sunday roasts were legendary, her apple pies melted in the mouth. When John first brought Emma home, Margaret had laid out a spread fit for a banquet.
“My Johnny loves homemade pies,” shed said back then, kneading dough in a massive bowl. “I bake a batch every weekend. He freezes themlasts him all week.”
Emma had watched, amazed, as Margarets hands moved effortlesslyrolling perfect circles, folding fillings neatly. It looked so easy. But when *she* tried, the pastry came out lumpy, the fillings leaking.
“Mum, teach me to cook like you,” shed asked once, when they were alone in the kitchen.
“Oh, its nothing, love,” Margaret had laughed. “Cookings all heart. If you love your husband, itll come. Recipes dont matter much.”
But love wasnt enough. Emmas meat burned or stayed raw, her porridge was gluey, her cakes never rose right.
“Teas ready,” she said, placing a tray with cups and biscuits on the coffee table.
“Ta,” John said, not looking away from the telly.
Emma sat beside him but didnt pay attention to the show. She thought about tomorrows dinner. Another meal, another disappointment.
“John what if we just ordered takeaway sometimes?” she ventured.
“What? No. A proper home needs proper meals.”
“But if I cant”
“You can. Just try harder.”
Emma fell silent. *How?* She spent hours in the kitchen, read cookbooks, watched tutorials. What more could she do?
That weekend, they visited Margaret, who finally let Emma help with a pie. The dough was soft, the filling just right. But when they sat down to eat
“Not bad,” John said. “But Mums pastry is lighter.”
Margaret shot him a look. “John, thats unkind. Emma did well.”
“I didnt say it was bad. Just not like yours, Mum.”
Emma looked down. Even with Margaret guiding her, it still wasnt good enough.
Later, at home, she stared at the leftover pie. It *was* tasty. But John wanted it *exactly* like his mothers.
“Emma, whats for dinner tomorrow?” John asked, grabbing a glass of water.
“I dont know yet.”
“Maybe a proper shepherds pie? Mum was just saying hers has a secret trick”
“Fine. Ill try.”
But Emma knewit wouldnt be right. Not like *hers*.
She sighed and started a shopping list. Maybe better ingredients would help. Though she doubted, now, shed ever hear real praise from him.
**Lesson:** A man should never measure his wifes efforts against his mothers. Love isnt a competitionits patience.
