The Hungry Poet: My Life in Food — Sunday Dinner... at Lunchtime.

A journey through Andrew Jamison's life in food. Subscribe to his weekly newsletter here.

Sunday Dinner… at Lunchtime

If food in our house reached a peak, a zenith, a crescendo it was on Sunday. It would form two waves. The first wave was Sunday dinner itself which we ate about 1pm (2pm on a late day) involving a form of roast meat, roast potatoes, boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes served in a dish with a sprig of parsley (why not?), carrots, broccoli, cocktail sausages, bacon rolls (a small ball of stuffing wrapped in bacon)

The second wave came in the afternoon anytime between 4-5pm and came in the form of ‘a wee cup of tea for the visitors’ (which actually involved a selection of sandwiches, scones, biscuits and cakes, as well as any leftover pudding, and on occasion the remnants of the after dinner cheeseboard would also be brought out). Simply put, it didn’t get any better than a Sunday. And suffice to say, there was never any need for dinner, although any leftover sandwiches from the afternoon would be conveniently scoffed should hunger rear its weary head.

I realise this may make us sound pompous, over the top, or indulgent, however I hope by now you’ve got a sense of how all roads led to this – it was a day of coming together, eating good food my mother had made with all the resources and care and skills and love she had. Sunday was always the loveliest of days growing up. And the sun wasn’t always shining on a Sunday, it couldn’t have been, but that’s the only weather I seem to be able recall when I think of Sunday.

Here’s how it worked: Mum would be up the night before getting the pavlova in the oven to sit all night and cool, peeling potatoes and preparing everything else. Sunday morning would come, Dad would polish our shoes, Mum would get us ready and we’d all go to Sunday school, having very quickly that morning learnt our catechism (a gobbet from the Bible about obeying God).  Mum would put the meat in the oven, either chicken (unseasoned) in a lidded Pyrex dish, or a topside of beef with a few vegetables. Once we came back from church she’d sort the spuds which she’d parboil (always) before roasting on a tray with a bit of Crisp’n’Dry oil (always Crisp’n’Dry), which was effectively a blend of rapeseed oils. A little addition to this would be a few cocktail sausages which would always be thrown into a small dish too.

As I got older, Sunday evening became the worst part of the week. The fun was over, the food was over, and it was back to school. I would sit in my room at my Argos desk and work through the subjects Geography (usually colouring in a map), English (reading a bit or maybe some comprehension) or French (learning a bit of vocab). As a teacher, Sunday evenings still retained that sense of inevitability and blues-i-ness. But funnily enough, I look back at Sunday as some of the most formative days of childhood: there was the enforced reflection of church; the learning of the catechism; listening to a sermon and learning to think critically about what was being preached; the socialising of the Sunday table and discussed that involved; seeing wider family later in the day; and then working at the desk on my own in the evening, independently getting schoolwork done, not to mention all the eating involved. In many ways, Sunday was the day of days.