“You can’t cook like my mum,” declared the husband, pushing his plate away untouched.
“Emily, what’s that smell?” asked George as he stepped into the flat, hanging his coat on the hook and sniffing the air. “Something burnt?”
“It’s roast chicken,” called Emily from the kitchen, hastily turning off the hob under a pot of potatoes. “Dinners almost ready!”
George walked into the kitchen where his wife was bustling by the sink, rinsing lettuce leaves. Her hair was dishevelled, a smudge of flour dusted her cheek, and her apron was splattered with something orange.
“How was work?” Emily asked without turning. “Was Mr. Harris giving you grief again?”
“No, it was fine. What about you?” George peered into the oven where the chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. “Whats this recipe?”
“Found it online,” Emily replied, wiping her hands on a tea towel and opening the oven wider. “Called French-style chicken. Supposed to be simple but impressive.”
George nodded silently and went to change. Emily set the table, arranging plates and cutlery on the white tablecloth shed laid out specially. She tried cooking something new every day, experimenting with recipes, buying unusual spices. She wanted to surprise her husband, to cheer him up after work.
“Sit down, love,” she called when George returned in his lounge clothes. “All done.”
They settled at the table across from each other. Emily watched anxiously as George served himself chicken, potatoes, and salad. She took hardly anything, just a bit of potatoher appetite had vanished from nerves.
George picked up his fork, cut a piece of meat, chewed. His expression was unreadable. Emily waited for him to say something, but he ate in silence, sipping his tea occasionally.
“Well?” she finally burst out. “How is it?”
“Alright,” George said shortly, not looking up from his plate.
“Just alright?” Emilys face fell. “I triedits a new recipe”
George sighed, set down his fork, and looked at her.
“You cant cook like my mum,” he said, leaving his plate nearly untouched. “Her meals were always a proper feast. This” He gestured at the dish. “This is just food.”
Emily felt a lump rise in her throat. She lowered her eyes, hiding how much his words stung.
“Im learning,” she said quietly. “No ones perfect straight away”
“Mum had five kids to feed by your age,” George went on, rising from the table. “No one ever went hungry. And more than thatit was always delicious.”
He walked off to the living room and turned on the telly. Emily remained at the table, staring at his nearly full plate. The chicken had come out a bit dry, the potatoes slightly mushy, the sauce oddly flavoured. But shed put in so much effort
Standing, she began clearing the table. The leftovers went into the binno one would eat them now. The plates clinked as she stacked them in the sink.
“Em, are you making tea?” George called from the other room.
“Yes,” she replied, though she couldnt summon the energy to bother with the kettle.
While the tea brewed, Emily thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman really could cook brilliantly. Her Sunday roast was legendary, her apple crumble melted in your mouth. When George first brought Emily home to meet his parents, Margaret had laid out a spread so grand it made your head spin.
“My Georgie loves homemade steak and ale pie,” Margaret had said back then, rolling out pastry in a huge bowl. “I make him one every fortnightlasts him all week.”
Emily had watched, amazed at how deftly her future mother-in-laws hands moved, how quickly perfect circles of pastry appeared, how neatly the filling was folded in. It looked so simple. But when Emily tried it at home, she ended up with lumpy, misshapen disasters that fell apart in the oven.
“Mum, can you teach me to cook like you?” shed once asked Margaret when they were alone in the kitchen.
“Nothing to teach, love,” Margaret had laughed. “Cooking comes from the heart. Love your husband, and the foodll taste right. Recipes hardly matter.”
But love, it turned out, wasnt enough. Emilys meat was either charred or raw, her porridge too runny or too thick, her cakes stubbornly flat.
“Teas ready,” she said, setting a tray with mugs and biscuits on the coffee table.
“Ta,” George said, taking a cup without glancing away from the telly.
Emily sat beside him but didnt join in watching. She thought about tomorrows dinner, bracing herself for another evening of hearing it wasnt as good as his mums.
“George, maybe I could visit your mum?” she suggested. “She could teach me her roast recipe.”
“Why?” he frowned. “Shes got her own things to do.”
“She wouldnt mind. Itd help me.”
“Mums not as young as she wasteachingd tire her out,” George dismissed. “Anyway, its not about that. Shes just got a gift for cooking. You” He shrugged.
Emily stayed quiet. A heavy, prickly feeling settled in her chest. So she was a hopeless wife who couldnt even feed her husband properly.
The next day, after work, Emily stopped at a bookshop and bought a thick cookbook with glossy photos. At home, she carefully studied a recipe for sausage casserolesimple enough, surely.
“Whats for dinner?” George asked when he got in.
“Sausage casserole,” Emily answered, stirring the pan.
“Ah. Right.” His voice was flat.
“Whats wrong?”
“Nothing. JustMum always did hers in the slow cooker. Tasted completely different.”
“We dont have a slow cooker,” Emily said, flustered.
“Shouldve bought one,” George shrugged.
Dinner passed in silence. George ate without enthusiasm, washing bites down with water. Emily knew shed failed again but couldnt pinpoint howshed followed the recipe exactly.
“Not enough salt?” she ventured.
“Its not the salt,” George sighed. “Mum just had a knack. Knew exactly what to add.”
After dinner, Emily stood at the kitchen window, watching lights flicker in other flats. Georges words about his mums touch, her talent, her knowing just how much of everything to use, spun in her head. Were there really women who simply couldnt learn to cook?
That weekend, they visited Margaret. His mum welcomed them warmly, as always, and ushered them straight to the kitchen.
“Georgie, lookyour favourite toad-in-the-hole!” She opened the oven, releasing a cloud of savoury steam. “And buttery mash with parsley.”
“Mum, you shouldnt have gone to all this trouble,” George said, though he looked pleased.
At the table, Margaret beamed as her son devoured the food. Emily took a biteit really was delicious. The sausages crisp outside, tender within, the batter light and golden.
“Margaret, how do you make this so perfect?” she asked. “Any secrets?”
“No secrets, love,” Margaret chuckled. “Good sausages, a hot tray, and a bit of love. Thats all.”
“But what about measurements?”
“Oh, by eye, dear. After years of practice, your hands just know.”
Emilys heart sank. Againthose mysterious hands that just knew. Hers, it seemed, knew nothing.
“Mum, remember your steak pies?” George cut in. “Still dream about them.”
“Course I remember! Made them every Sunday. You kids wolfed them down.”
“You dont make them anymore?” Emily asked.
“Who for? Georgie hardly visits, and Ive not the energy these days. No point baking a whole pie for one.”
“Mum, maybe you could teach Em?” George suggested. “She tried a pie oncedidnt turn out.”
Emily flushed, embarrassed at having her failures laid bare like this.
“Nothing to teach,” Margaret waved a hand. “Pastrys easyjust needs patience.”
“But mine always turns out tough,” Emily admitted.
“Probably overworking it. Or the butters too warm.”
“Could we try together sometime?” Emily asked timidly.
“Of course, love! Come round early one Saturdaywell make a day of it.”
But that day never came. George was busy, Margaret had errands, the weather turned bad. Meanwhile, Emily kept cooking dinners, kept hearing they werent as good as his mums.
One morning, she tried an experiment. She woke early, before work, and set beef stew simmering in the slow cooker. All day, she imagined Georges face when he came home to the rich, homely smell.
“Whats that aroma?” George asked, stepping inside.
“Beef stew,” Emily said proudly. “Been cooking all day.”
She lifted the lid, dished out a generous portion. The meat was fork-tender, the vegetables held their shape, the gravy thick and fragrant.
George tasted it, chewing thoughtfully.
“Not bad,” he said. “But Mum did hers different. She cubed the carrotsyours are sliced. And she never fried onions separatewent straight in with the beef.”
“But it tastes good, doesnt it?” Emily pressed.
“Its fine,” George conceded. “Just not the same.”
Something inside Emily twisted. Againnot the same, not like his mums. She experimented, bought premium ingredients, studied recipes, yet the result never changed.
“George, what if we just ordered in sometimes?” she suggested over tea. “So many good delivery places now.”
“Dont be daft!” George looked appalled. “Homes for home cooking. Thats what familys about.”
“But if I cant get it right”
“You can. Just try harder.”
Emily said nothing. Try harderhow? She already spent hours daily in the kitchen, read food blogs, watched tutorial videos. What more was there?
Come Sunday, they visited Margaret again. This time, she did offer to show Emily how to make scones.
“Here, loveyou can help. Watch how its done,” she said, pulling flour and butter from the cupboard.
Emily gladly pitched insieving flour, warming milk, kneading dough. Margaret guided her, correcting and advising.
“Dont overwork itgentle hands make light scones,” she said. “And go easy on the flour or theyll turn out tough.”
The dough did come out smooth and springy. They left it to rest, then prepared clotted cream and jam.
“Jam first or cream?” Emily asked.
Margaret gasped in mock horror. “Cream first, love! Proper Devon style!”
When the scones were baked, the kitchen filled with their warm, buttery scent.
“Well?” Margaret asked as they sat down to eat.
“Theyre lovely!” Emily said, relieved. “Arent they, George?”
He nodded, mouth full.
“Nice. But Mums are fluffier.”
Margaret gave her son a look.
“George, thats not kind. Emily did wonderfully.”
“Didnt say they werent good. Just that yours are better, Mum.”
Emily looked down. Even with Margaret there, even cooking side by side, it still wasnt as good as his mums.
That evening, back home, Emily sat at the kitchen table staring at leftover scones. They really were deliciousbut for George, that wasnt enough. He wanted them exactly like his mothers, no exceptions.
“Em, whats for dinner tomorrow?” George asked, coming in for a glass of water.
“Not sure yet,” she said wearily.
“How about that leek and potato soup? Mum was just saying how she does hers.”
“Fine. Ill make it.”
But Emily knewthe soup wouldnt taste like Margarets. Neither would the shepherds pie, the roast, the Yorkshire puddings. Because her hands werent the right hands, her love not quite the right love, it seemed.
She stood and went to the window. Outside, other flats glowed warmly. Somewhere behind those windows, other wives were cooking for their husbands. Maybe some of them, too, couldnt match their mother-in-laws cooking. Or maybe they were luckiermaybe their husbands praised their efforts instead of measuring them against someone elses.
Emily sighed and reached for a notepad. Leek and potato soup needed good stockmaybe then itd taste closer. Though by now, she hardly expected George to ever truly compliment her cooking.
