Sunday Dinner

When we were growing up we had the same dinner every Sunday.  Occasionally the choice of veg might change but apart from that it remained the same, and every week it was just as delicious as the last.  My mam was a wonderful cook.  She didn't make anything fancy and 'foreign' dishes did not feature on the menu but she had the ability to make sure that everything she made was delicious.  I don't think she knew how good she was or if she did she didn't let on.  Her girls needed to be fed so she cooked for them and with an added sprinkling of love everything tasted wonderful.

On a Sunday the house would be filled with the smell of chicken roasting in the oven.  Nothing amazing there but in the right hands simple flavours can be transformed into the most scrummy culinary delights.  My sister would sometimes grumble quietly to me that she wasn't in the humour of, "chicken again", on a Sunday morning, but I always looked forward to it with equal enthusiasm each week. 

Wearing her slippers and lemon & orange ditsy floral apron and having changed out of her 'good' clothes after mass she would busy herself in the kitchen.  She always seemed to be busy in the kitchen, no matter the day.  Breaks would be taken here and there to visit the washing machine or run the hoover over the floors but predominantly I remember her busy, singing and oblivious to the world in our small scullery kitchen.  Peeling, chopping and tasting every Sunday morning she would emerge now and then, red faced to talk on the phone or to ask her girls something or maybe just to sit for a moment. 

When it got closer to the time to serve myself and my sisters would set the table.  Glasses of minerals (a Sunday treat) would be poured for all and the aromas from the kitchen would become almost unbearable.  Plates would be loaded but no two were ever the same.  My mam catered to each girls likes and dislikes and never once insisted that everyone eat the same to make life easier for her.  My eldest sister got a little of everything as she loved all veg and was probably the least picky of us all, but no gravy as she preferred hers without.  My middle sister got a small portion of everything but never cabbage or sprouts and just a drizzle of gravy.  I fell somewhere in the middle, also not a fan of cabbage and sprouts back then (I love them now), I got a portion in between the size of the other two, but everything was covered in gravy, I loved the stuff.  My mam would sit down last, with a small serving that she would pretty much inhale, a habit of eating on the go while keeping a family running and happy.

A positive of my mams catering to order was that all plates were empty by the end of the meal, every morsel devoured by each individual.  The chef never had any complaints to address, and sure why would she, she was a pro when it came to a Sunday roast.  Her chickens were delicious, moist and tender, with crispy, golden skin.  Her veg was never over cooked, none of this boiled to the point of disintegration lark with her.  And then there were her roast potatoes.  I have never tasted any quite like them since, I don't know what it was but they were just perfect.  A crispy outer shell, while soft and fluffy inside.  I make a pretty good roast potato, they receive many compliments and very often seconds are requested but they have never, never been as good as my mams.  They lack a little something, perhaps a little magic. 

I am almost a little glad they have never been replicated by another hand.  For that reason I can always remember hers as being the best in the business, and I think that in my mind that is just one more fitting tribute to a woman who never looked for commendations or applause, but who just spent her life being quietly great.

I'm not sure I ever told my mam she was a wonderful cook, not in words that is.  Clean plates being proferred up to her following each meal I suppose could be passed off as a gesture of the same.  I'm not sure if anyone ever said it to her, I hope they did, she deserved to be told. 

So there you have it, my childhood Sunday dinner.  Did you have a special Sunday dinner as a child?  Did you have the same each week or did each week bring with it a surprise?  Do you have the same each Sunday now?  I would love to hear you memories in the comments, so please, drop me a little line.