“You can’t cook like my mum,” declared James, pushing his plate away untouched.
“Sophie, what’s that smell?” he asked the moment he stepped through the front door, hanging his coat on the hook and sniffing the air. “Something burnt…”
“It’s roast chicken,” Sophie called from the kitchen, hastily turning off the hob under the pan of potatoes. “Dinners almost ready!”
James wandered into the kitchen, where his wife was bustling by 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?” Sophie asked without turning. “Did Mr. Thompson give you a hard time again?”
“No, it was fine. What about you?” James peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled in some sort of sauce. “Whats this recipe?”
“Found it online,” Sophie said, wiping her hands on a tea towel before opening the oven wider. “Called ‘French-style chicken.’ Seemed simple enough, but it looks nice.”
James nodded silently and left to change. Sophie set the table carefully, arranging plates and cutlery on the white tablecloth shed laid out specially. Shed been trying new recipes lately, experimenting with spicesanything to surprise him after a long day.
“Dinners ready, love,” she said when James returned in his loungewear.
They sat opposite each other. Sophie watched anxiously as he served himself chicken, potatoes, and salad. She barely took anythingher appetite had vanished with nerves.
James cut a piece of meat, chewed thoughtfully. His face gave nothing away. She waited, but he ate in silence, sipping his tea occasionally.
“Well?” she finally asked. “How is it?”
“Its alright,” he said shortly, not looking up.
“Just alright?” Her heart sank. “I tried a new recipe…”
James sighed, set his fork down, and met her eyes.
“You cant cook like my mum,” he stated, leaving his plate nearly untouched. “Her meals were always special. This? Its just… food.”
Sophie swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Im still learning,” she murmured. “Not everyone gets it right straight away…”
“Mum was feeding five kids by your age,” James continued, standing. “No one ever went hungry. And everything always tasted amazing.”
He walked off to the living room, switching on the telly. Sophie sat alone, staring at his full plate. The chicken had dried out, the potatoes were mushy, the sauce odd-tasting. But shed tried so hard.
Clearing the table, she scraped the leftovers into the bin. The plates clattered as she stacked them in the sink.
“Soph, you making tea?” James called.
“Yeah,” she replied, though she couldnt muster the energy.
As the kettle boiled, Sophie thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. The woman *could* cook. Her Sunday roasts were legendary, her apple crumbles divine. When James had first brought Sophie home, Margaret had laid out a feastpies, gravies, perfectly golden Yorkshire puddings.
“My Jamie loves homemade sausage rolls,” Margaret had said once, kneading dough in a huge bowl. “I make them every weekend. He freezes themlasts him all week.”
Sophie had watched in awe as Margarets hands moved effortlessly, shaping perfect pastries. It looked so easy. But when *she* tried, the pastry tore, the filling oozed out, and the rolls emerged from the oven charred or raw.
“Mum, teach me how you do it,” Sophie had begged once, when they were alone in the kitchen.
“Oh, its nothing, love,” Margaret had laughed. “Cookings from the heart. Love your husband, and the rest follows.”
But love, it turned out, wasnt enough. Sophies stews were bland, her cakes dense, her roasts either rubbery or burnt.
“Teas ready,” she said, placing a tray with cups and biscuits on the coffee table.
“Ta,” James muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
Sophie sat beside him but didnt join in watching. Tomorrow, shed have to cook again. And tomorrow, hed say it wasnt like his mums.
“James,” she ventured, “maybe I could visit your mum? Learn her roast recipe?”
“Why?” He frowned. “Shes busy.”
“She wouldnt mind. Itd help me.”
“Mums not as young as she was. Besides, shes got a knack for it. You…” He shrugged.
Sophie said nothing. The words settled like a stone in her chest.
The next evening, she pulled a beef stew from the slow cooker, the meat tender, the gravy rich.
James took a bite. “Not bad. But Mum diced the carrots. And she never browned the onions separately.”
Sophies hope flickered out.
“James,” she said quietly over tea, “what if we just ordered in sometimes?”
“Dont be daft. A home-cooked meals what keeps a family together.”
“But if I cant”
“You *can*. Just keep trying.”
Trying *how*? She read cookbooks, watched tutorials, spent hours prepping. What else was there?
That Sunday, Margaret finally showed her how to make pastry.
“Dont overwork the dough,” Margaret instructed. “And no extra flouritll toughen up.”
Sophie rolled, filled, crimped. Her pastries were lopsided, but Margaret patted her shoulder. “Youll get there.”
When they came out of the oven, golden and crisp, James took a bite.
“Nice,” he said. “But Mums pastrys lighter.”
Margaret shot him a look. “Jamie, thats unkind. Sophie did well.”
“I didnt say it was bad. Just not like yours, Mum.”
That night, Sophie stared at the leftover pastries. Even when she followed every step, it wasnt enough.
“Soph,” James asked later, “whats for dinner tomorrow?”
“Dunno yet.”
“Maybe a proper shepherds pie? Mum told me her secretlamb mince, not beef.”
“Alright.”
But Sophie already knewit wouldnt taste like Margarets. Nothing ever would.
She sighed, reaching for the shopping list. Maybe better ingredients would help. Though she hardly dared hope hed ever truly praise her cooking.
