On Friday I discovered that my Brazilian friend was yet to
experience that unique, beauteous, divine creation of Man: The Sunday Dinner.
It’s difficult to verbalise just what is so magical and enticing about this
meal.
I am a simple man. Whilst the food of other cultures may
pass my lips from time to time; never will any cuisine surpass that of the
British. Our food may seem strange to some, and bland to others. But for us it’s
home. And no other food encapsulates that idea more than the Sunday dinner.
It’s an event. The preparation followed by the hours of cooking
and slaving away; the clanging chimes of pots and pans that call the house
together; the overwhelming scents of meat, potatoes and gravy as you burst
excitedly into the kitchen; the heat of the room causing the windows to steam.
There is a moment of chaos as the cook plates up and the hungry diners wait
without patience. And then the meal is delivered.
The food; SO much food! The meat, the potatoes, the vegetables,
the stuffing, the Yorkshires; all of it swimming in a pool of rich gravy. So
people like to make it more refined with garlic gravy, or herbed mash. Shame on
these people! This meal is one of humbleness and simplicity! When the meal
comes to an end, the family sit back in their chairs so full with food that it’s
difficult to even speak.
It is my personal and humble opinion that the dinner you experience
at home, be it cooked by your mum, your dad, your grandparents, or whoever, is
the epitome of excellence. No other variation can top this, or ever will. For a
poor student so far away from home, it’s rare that I get to enjoy such a treat
as my mum cooking the Sunday dinner. It’s perfection. The one centre of world. Though
I will say, my housemate does make a worthy substitute.
And finally, I don’t care what anyone says: It is NOT the
same if it’s NOT a Sunday!
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