I will always relate the Sunday roast to my childhood. For me there is only one other meal that will compete and that’s Christmas dinner.
Growing up watching my mum in the kitchen doing the Sunday morning food prep to be ready to turn on after getting back from running me all around the county to play football is something that will always be with me. Even now those memories are still fresh 30 plus years on. I can take myself up my parents now and religiously every Sunday my mum will be stood in the kitchen cooking away. She has never let her MS get in the way of her perfect roasties and cooking.
If my boys remember that in 30 plus years my job will have been done.
The romance of a Sunday roast is magical.
Any meat, any vegetables, Yorkshire puddings, stuffing, horseradish mash, dauphinois potatoes – any of those can be mixed up but always give me a roast potato. Love finishing mine with fresh rosemary. The smell in the kitchen takes me back as if I’m time travelling…..back in time to when I had no worries at all, life was simple. It was all about chasing as football and girls. Now my life is extremely complicated and in recent weeks become more so. So ever Sunday the smell in the kitchen takes me back.
Long live the Sunday roast ❤️.
Home Cooking for everyone. 
It’s roast potatoes, without a doubt that make it, and there is alway room for one more. But I think it’s because we were made to see it as an event when we’re little, that has made those memories last. I don’t know whether it was the anticipation, as it took the longest of any of the meals we had to prepare and cook, it was the only thing that happened then on a Sunday (we’re similar ages, so you’ll remember that there were no shops open), that we dressed just that little bit smarter on a Sunday, or that we were made to realise that whilst we did have one every week it was a treat.
One of my favourite memories though is that whenever we went back to Leeds to my grandparents. The dining room table was extended as far as it would go, and a collection of random chairs and stools would be sat around it, but my gran would never sit at it. She’d sit herself on a stool at the end of the kitchen counter, just a couple of feet from the rest of us, and she’d eat her dinner there. Just incase anyone needed anything more, and to keep an eye on the still simmering gravy in the pan that the meat had cooked in. She could never do enough for anyone, and that’s how I always see her now. Peering in from the kitchen doorway, smiling, and keeping an eye on everyone plates to see if there was one room for just one more roast potato.
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Those memories are to be cherished.
The grandma’s / gran’s knew best! Like the big meerkat watching over its family to see who needed feeding up with more food in reserve.
I knew have recreated the way my grandma also cooked bacon….burnt to a crisp yet was bloody amazing.
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