It’s a tradition that dates back through the generations, captured in fading photographs that evoke the aromas and conviviality of a restful weekend, capped with an indulgent family meal. Even in an age of restless change, there’s nothing like a hearty Sunday roast.
In a yellowing photograph album belonging to my parents, there are pictures of my grandparents entertaining their family at home. Beehive hairdos and cat’s eye spectacles abound. Unflattering shots of people tucking into their black-and-white food, and one picture in particular that sticks in my mind: my uncle, passed out on a bed, 50s ducktail askew, legs sprawled, and mouth agape. Sated.
Turn a few pages and here’s an image, still black-and-white, of my mom, my sister, and me, around the kitchen table. It’s Sunday. I can deduce this from the spread. There’s the meat, probably lamb or beef. There are the roast potatoes, an essential component.
I’m looking up at the camera, still in my Sunday school dress, all big hair and puffy sleeves, waiting for my dad to take the picture so I can start eating. Why he’d want to capture this moment, I can’t guess now, but I’m glad he did. It’s evidence of my Sunday lunch heritage.
To my family, the words, “Sunday” and “lunch” are inherently linked. Sundays are roast days, the smell of a leg of lamb or a pork shoulder permeating the house from early morning while it slow-cooks to fall-off-the-bone-tenderness.
My mom made all the roasts while I was growing up, hardly ever missing a weekend. It was only when my sister and I took over from her and began inviting her to our houses to enjoy the roasts we cooked that I realised how much effort she poured into each weekend’s meal.
My sister took the tradition very seriously, and roasted far more often than I did. I called it the weekend pilgrimage. We’d pack the car to the brim with necessities for travelling the 40km from my house to hers with three small children. Most weekends, we’d drive in convoy with my parents, their little white Fiat setting the unhurried pace.
Late morning to early afternoon would see me and her in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, and basting. The smell of the food made it difficult to keep the kids out of the kitchen, desperate to know when lunch would be ready.
No Sunday lunch is complete without dessert, and this was usually my task. Baked apple pudding with custard, self-saucing chocolate pudding with cream, or, on hot days, ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Sluggish afterwards, we’d sit outside and watch the kids play, waiting for our food to digest and preparing ourselves for the long journey back home.
Now that my sister is gone, I’ve taken up the mantle. It’s become an almost subconscious practice: without really considering it, I find myself digging in the freezer on a weekly basis for a piece of meat or a chicken that can be seasoned, basted, slow-cooked, and enjoyed on a lazy Sunday.
I realised just how entrenched the tradition had become when Kid 3 looked up from his roast chicken one weekend and asked, “Why do we always have a roast on the weekend?”
With rising prices, we don’t roast every weekend. But when we roast, it’s on a weekend that allows us the time to get started on the preparation early in the morning, and when there’s no hurry to take it out of the oven before it’s done to perfection.
Why do we always have roast on the weekend? It’s your heritage, kid. Inescapable. So much a part of you, that I’d be surprised if it hadn’t embedded itself in your genes by now. I’m already looking forward to the Sunday lunches that you’ll be feeding me one day when you’re grown.
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