Mothering Sunday in the Kitchen

There is something about Mothering Sunday that always brings me back to the kitchen.

Not a styled kitchen, not an Instagram kitchen. A real one. Busy, warm, slightly chaotic, with the oven on all day and something always being stirred, baked or chopped.

Growing up in the 1970s, Sundays were always spent there.

It sounds rather old-fashioned now and probably not very politically correct, but that was simply how life was then. Sunday was cooking day. The roast would go into the oven and once it was on, it made sense to fill it.

That belief has never quite left me.

If the oven is on, something else should be going in with it to make the most of the cost of turning it on. A tray of biscuits. A sponge cake. A pie for the next day. Something savoury for lunches. The oven was precious, and you made the most of it.

Our Sundays followed that rhythm.

The roast cooking slowly, potatoes crisping, vegetables bubbling away. But alongside it all there would be cakes, biscuits and savoury bits being made ready for the week ahead. Homemade treats for packed lunches, and if we were really lucky, something delicious for Sunday tea, followed by bath time ready for school the next day.

Looking back, it is rather funny how childhood quietly shapes the direction our lives take. Those Sundays in the kitchen clearly planted the seed for my love of food and cooking, but there were other clues too.

I used to spend hours pretending to type on my little toy typewriter, completely absorbed in the idea of writing stories and making books. At the same time, my poor teddy bears were regularly lined up on the bed while I attempted to diagnose and fix whatever imaginary ailments they had developed that week.

When I think about it now, training in nutritional and functional medicine, using food and nutrients as a form of medicine, and then going on to write 24 books about food and health feels oddly fitting. Perhaps the signs were there all along.

I grew up in a very modest household where every penny was counted and nothing was wasted. Looking back, that quiet culture of thrift taught me far more about food and cooking than I realised at the time. Unlike many families today, we were always involved in what was going on. If Mum was cooking, we were in the kitchen. If she was gardening, we were outside helping too. There was no nursery and very little television to keep us entertained.

Mum often tells the story that as babies we would be placed in our highchairs in the kitchen while she cooked, handed a wooden spoon or a little piece of pastry to keep us busy while she prepared the meal. We would sit there happily squashing and rolling it between our fingers until it turned rather grey and questionable looking.

Eventually we would shape it into something vaguely biscuit like, add a couple of sultanas for eyes and pop it in the oven.

When Dad came home from work, we would proudly present him with our creations.

Poor man.

Whether they tasted good or not I cannot say, but he always ate them. Or at least he pretended to. If he did secretly dispose of the evidence, he hid it very well.

And so my love of cooking began.

Those little moments matter more than we realise at the time.

The kitchen was where we gathered, where stories were told, where food quietly connected the day together. Nobody spoke about nutrition in those days, yet meals were balanced, seasonal and made from ingredients you recognised.

It was simply how life was.

That love of cooking stayed with me. At school I chose Home Economics without hesitation. I can still remember carrying my biscuit tin full of ingredients to school on cooking day, absolutely thrilled by the idea that I would come home with something I had made myself.

And when I did, I was as proud as punch.

Looking back now, those kitchens of the past shaped far more than just our meals.

They shaped habits.

They shaped memories.

And they quietly passed down the idea that feeding people is one of the most caring things we can do.

And I am definitely a feeder.

Perhaps that is why Mothering Sunday feels less about flowers and cards to me, and more about the kitchen table.

About roasts, cakes and the smell of something baking.

About the people who first taught us how to cook, even if they did it simply by letting us sit in the kitchen and play with pastry.

Sadly Dad is no longer with us, but Mum will be joining us for a family roast this Sunday. And yes, we will also be filling the oven with cakes and treats for the week ahead, just like old times.

Sarah