The air in the kitchen felt thick, like syrup clinging to a spoon.
“You can’t cook like my mum,” declared Oliver, pushing his plate away untouched.
“Emma, what’s that smell?” he asked as soon as he stepped into the flat, hanging his coat on the hook and sniffing the air. “Something burnt…”
“It’s roast chicken,” Emma called from the kitchen, hastily turning off the hob under a pot of potatoes. “Almost ready!”
Oliver walked in and saw his wife bustling by the sink, rinsing lettuce leaves. Her hair was tousled, a smudge of flour on her cheek, her apron splattered with something orange.
“How was work?” she asked without looking up. “Did Mr. Bickerson give you grief again?”
“No, it was fine. You?” He peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled in some dubious sauce. “Whats this recipe?”
“Found it online. Chicken à la King. Supposed to be simple but elegant.”
Oliver nodded vaguely and disappeared to change. Emma laid the table carefully, smoothing the white cloth, arranging the cutlery just so. She tried to cook something new every day, experimenting with spices, wanting to surprise him after work.
“Come eat, love,” she said when he returned in his pyjamas.
They sat across from each other. Emma watched anxiously as Oliver piled chicken, potatoes, and salad onto his plate. She took hardly anythingnerves had stolen her appetite.
He chewed silently, face unreadable. She waited.
“Well?” she finally asked. “Is it good?”
“Its alright,” he muttered, not looking up.
“Just *alright*? I tried a new recipe”
Oliver sighed, set down his fork, and met her gaze.
“You cant cook like my mum. Every meal she made was an event. This?” He gestured at the plate. “This is just food.”
The lump in her throat threatened to choke her. She looked down, hiding the sting.
“Im learning,” she whispered. “Not everyone gets it right straight away”
“Mum had five kids fed by your age,” he said, standing. “No one ever went hungry. And everything? Always perfect.”
He left for the telly. Emma stayed, staring at his half-finished plate. The chicken *was* dry. The potatoes overdone. The sauce odd. But shed tried so hard.
She scraped the leftovers into the bin. The plates clattered as she loaded them into the sink.
“Emma, make us some tea?” Oliver called from the sofa.
“Alright,” she said, though she didnt want to.
As the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. A woman who cooked like a goddess. Her Sunday roasts were legendary, her Yorkshire puddings light as clouds. When Emma first met her, Margaret had laid out a feast that could feed an army.
“My Oliver *adores* my steak and ale pie,” shed said, rolling pastry with effortless precision. “I make it every fortnighthe freezes portions for the week.”
Emma had watched, mesmerised. It looked so easy. But when she tried, the pastry tore, the filling leaked. A disaster.
Once, shed asked, “Margaret, could you teach me?”
Her mother-in-law had laughed. “Cookings from the heart, dear. Love your husband, and the rest follows. Recipes are just scribbles.”
But love wasnt enough. Emmas roasts burned. Her gravies split. Her cakes sank in the middle.
“Teas ready,” she said, setting the tray down.
Oliver took his cup without a word.
She sat beside him, not watching the telly. Tomorrow, shed cook again. And tomorrow, hed say it wasnt like his mums.
“Oliver, maybe I could visit Margaret? Learn her recipes properly.”
“Why? Shes busy.”
“She wouldnt mind. Itd help.”
“Mums not young anymore. And its not about lessons. Shes got a gift. You” He shrugged.
Emma stayed silent. The weight in her chest sharpened. A talentless wife.
The next day, she bought a cookbookthick, glossy, promising. That evening, she followed a recipe for beef stew to the letter.
“Dinners stew,” she said when Oliver came home.
“Oh.” His voice flattened.
“Whats wrong?”
“Mum did hers in the slow cooker. Different taste.”
“We dont have one.”
“Shouldve bought one, then.”
They ate in silence. Oliver pushed the meat around, gulping water.
“Not enough salt?” she ventured.
“Its not the salt,” he sighed. “Mum just *knew*. Her hands knew.”
Later, Emma stood at the kitchen window, watching the lit squares of other flats. Did other wives feel this? Or did their husbands just like their cooking?
On Sunday, they visited Margaret.
“Look, Oliver! Your favouriteshepherds pie!” Margaret beamed, pulling it from the oven.
“Mum, you didnt have to,” Oliver said, but he was smiling.
At the table, Emma asked, “How do you make the mash so smooth?”
“Oh, its nothing, love. Butter, warm milk, a good whisk. Youll get there.”
“But *how much* butter?”
“However much feels right.”
Emmas heart sank. *Feels right*. Her hands didnt *feel* anything.
“Remember your apple crumble, Mum?” Oliver said. “Still dream about it.”
Margaret chuckled. “Made it every Sunday. Youd demolish it in minutes.”
“Do you still bake it?” Emma asked.
“Not much point now. Olivers rarely here, and its just me.”
“Maybe Emma could learn?” Oliver suggested. “Her bakings a bit hit and miss.”
Emmas face burned.
Margaret patted her hand. “Well try next time, dear. Come early, well bake together.”
But “next time” never came. Work. Errands. Rain.
One morning, Emma woke early, set a beef casserole in the slow cooker, and left it all day. She imagined Oliver walking in, inhaling the rich scent, finally impressed.
He sniffed. “Whats this?”
“Beef casserole. Cooking since dawn.”
She served him a generous portion. The meat was tender, the gravy thick.
He chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad. But Mum diced her carrots. And she never fried onions separately.”
“But does it taste good?”
“It does,” he admitted. “Just not the same.”
That night, over tea, she said, “Maybe we could order in sometimes? Lots of good places deliver now.”
Oliver looked horrified. “Home-cooked food is what makes a home.”
“But if I cant”
“You can. Just try harder.”
*Try harder.* She already spent hours in the kitchen. Watched tutorials. Bought organic. What more was there?
The next Sunday, Margaret finally taught her to bake scones.
“Knead gently,” Margaret instructed. “Too much, and theyll toughen.”
The dough rose beautifully. They baked them golden.
“Well?” Margaret asked as they ate.
“Theyre lovely!” Emma said.
Oliver nodded. “Good. But Mums are lighter.”
Margaret frowned. “Oliver, thats unkind. Emma did brilliantly.”
“I didnt say they werent good. Just not like yours, Mum.”
That night, Emma stared at the leftover scones. Even with Margaret guiding her, it wasnt enough.
Oliver wandered in. “Whats for dinner tomorrow?”
“I dont know yet.”
“Could you do a proper roast? Mum told me her trick for crispy potatoes.”
“Fine. Ill try.”
But she knew. The potatoes wouldnt crisp right. The gravy would lack depth. Because her hands werent Margarets. Her love wasnt Margarets.
She stood by the window, watching the evening lights. Somewhere, other women cooked for husbands who didnt compare. Who just said *thank you*.
With a sigh, she reached for her shopping list. Shed buy the best potatoes. Maybe this time, it would be enough.
But hope was thinning.
