The Joy of Roasting

DSC_0697I’ll give you just a minute with that title. All done? Goodo.

So, we don’t have an awful lot of family traditions: I’m the Mother of Spaniels and Step Mother of Teens, ain’t nobody got time for….anything at all really on a regular basis. I feel I should insert some comedy traditions in here for the lolz.

The one thing we all manage to do, without fail, in the heights of summer and the depths of winter, is sit down to a big, beastie, snooze inducing roast dinner.

It’s like late 1940s Britain threw up all over us.

We’ve spent a long time perfecting this Sunday tradition of ours from the ideal grub (beef and yorkshires, obvs), sexy veggies and granule-less gravy – I’ll show you how I make mine one day soon, I don’t want to brag but I’ve become the gravy queen of the South West. That’s trademarked, leave it alone.

By far and away the best bit of our Sunday tradition is having the time to sit around the table, stuffing ourselves silly and catching up on the week that was and the week that is about to come. It’s the one guaranteed couple of hours during which our busy little lives converge and we scoff like the apocalypse is coming.

I’m no family expert (because seriously, who is? Every family is beautifully unique in its dysfunction) but that little Sunday window has become a key part of knowing what our secretive teen contingent are up  to, of sharing all of our good news and laughing together, like real live humans. And those happy little moments together are what make the world go round really aren’t they? Amidst the busyness of real life.

We didn’t get to do this an awful lot when I was growing up, my mum worked a lot of weekend shifts (stick that in your pipe Jeremy Hunt) so I’m quasi religious about making the Sunday roast happen. Rules make it more fun for everyone right? Occasionally we open up the Sunday roast to others, friends, family, a passing troupe of trapeezing dachsunds. More often than not it’s just the four (six) of us enjoying each others’ company through mouthfuls of cauli cheese. And it’s blissful. My little family isn’t too shabby.

And I know what you’re thinking, the answer is of course the mutts get their own roast and the opportunity to share their hopes and dreams for the week ahead which invariably includes how many times they can use up the poop bag supply stuffed in my jeans pocket and nudge me into having that ever awkward conversation trying to blag one from another dog walker without looking like an irresponsible moron. Cheers guys.

These little Sunday interludes have become one of my favourite bits of the week. Do you roast?

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