Ever since I was a young girl, Sunday dinner has been a tradition held close to my heart. With five siblings, mealtime was often served dine and dash, with little emphasis placed on the intricacies of setting a table or the Norman Rockwell image of a family gathering to slowly dine and reconnect over a meal. Indeed, protecting one's food from nipping brothers was more of a priority than sitting straight in one's chair and keeping elbows off tables.
Sundays, however, were the exception. I have many olfactory memories of roast beef cooking in its savoury juices, Yorkshire puddings bubbling away in muffin cups, and the distinctive scent of turnip and broccoli wafting through the kitchen. Whether tucked away in my room reading or outside, playing, the delicious scents would inevitably find me, and the rumblings within my belly would begin. One by one, my siblings and I would wander out to the kitchen, voicing the question, "Is supper almost ready, Mum?" Often we'd be sent back to where we came from so as not to be in the way or, conversely, given a job such as stirring the gravy, setting the table (one fork, one knife, paper napkin...), or of you were a strong boy, given the job of mashing the potatoes to creamy perfection.
photo source: wikipedia.org
As our mother served up our plates (which she always heated in the oven for us), we'd bellow to each other to come to the table. Manners were always minded a little more, conversation would extend beyond requests of "Are you going to eat that?", and although elbows still resided casually on the table, it felt special to me. I imagined that people driving by would glance in the window, smile and dub us very Norman Rockwell indeed. Sunday dinner and all its traditions were very important to us, and made us feel very civilized, almost refined, and definitely warmed us through and through. Sunday was even special enough to warrant dessert, a real treat in our home. Usually it was one of my mother's apple pies or crumbles, or sometimes it was simply sticky pudding cake straight from a box. Either way, the special nuances of the meal have remained with me, and Sunday dinner is a tradition that I carry on with my own family. Times may have changed and my own husband often assists with the meal and its preparation, but the meaning has remained the same: Sunday is a special day, deserving of a fine meal, and is a day where we come together as a family to eat, laugh, and sadly, are subjected to my husband's favourite radio show: classic country. Oh well, it can't all be perfect!
After all, our last name isn't Rockwell, is it?
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This post is dedicated to my "long-suffering mother" who has cooked more meals than she could ever count; and to my husband, who made the entire Sunday dinner today in all its glory. Dinner hasn't tasted that good in a long time...and I didn't once ask, "Is it ready yet?"
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