A seasoned fisherman once told us that the best roast dinner he’d ever eaten was out at sea. I think of it each time I bring the ’tatoes out from the oven for a shake and a scrape.
He said everything would be tumbled in the waves: trays of vegetables bobbed in molten lard, butter-skinned chicken splashed from starboard to port.
I was thinking about our evening roast dinner at 11 o’ clock in the morning — out on a walk I hadn’t planned, which would end up being one of two trundles that Sunday.
One of my dear friends is currently walking her own pilgrimage two-thirds of the world away. I did my best to embody her grit as I kept a steady pace up the hill... yet all the grit I managed to summon was kicking the raindrops from the grass stems below.
I reached the top and both she, and the raw chicken at home in the fridge, came to mind. Spurring me onwards.
It’s funny because she’s vegan.
Letting gravity bend my knees for me on the downhill, wide-eyed dogs high from their unclipped leads wove loops around my path. Owners spoke on their behalf: Good Morning, Hello, Lovely Day For It.
Woof.
Later, my sister-in-law asked if we have a roast dinner every Sunday. Always?
Always.
If we don’t manage to, it really does ruffle the week ahead. I just can never seem to preen the feathers of Monday-Tuesday, and by the time I’m on track, tidy wings and beak clean, it’s Thursday or worse Friday, and I curse the bird I never cooked.
It is actually okay though to sometimes let it slip, miss a Sunday because the July sunshine tore us away. I’ve found Ritual to be forgiving. Things come back to you without fuss, all soft: a sleepy lamb nudging your limbs into motion, the familiarity returning in the quiet.
Ritual, too, shows progress in plain sight. I see how the carrots and parsnips no longer buckle into slush between fork ridges, instead they hold their shape, crisp-skinned. I can sprinkle cornflour into the saucepan full bravado knowing the gravy won't pour like the wine, or glob like dodgy mayo.
And Ritual ripples outwards. There are the Sundays I remember because the Boy tried gravy for the first time: What does it taste like?
Nice.
Or when our friends came and they liked the green beans — cooked them “my way” next time they bought them.
Maybe one day my roasts will be seaworthy. I’ll be in the kitchen anyway come Sunday.
As usual.
xoxo
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