Although I’d like to block out a regular time slot every day to write these daily posts, there will come times like today when it’s more apt to wait, for today was one of those rare occasions where our family decided to celebrate with a traditional British Sunday roast dinner. Yes, it is Halloween, but here in the UK, this particular “holiday” enjoys much less attention than its American counterpart. Further, the last vestiges of lockdown and pandemic restrictions have all but guaranteed our local youth wouldn’t be pestering us with the typical trick or treat pan-handling. Just to be safe, we turned off the front step lights to indicate our lack of interest patience? for children demanding candy. I do wonder, though, how the tiny Sophia would have reacted to the train of ghouls, ghosties, and Avengers knock-offs who might have come knocking. She’s been a sponge lately, and at such an influential time I can only imagine how dolling up in “fancy dress” The British term for “costume." could have influenced her expectations, especially considering her attention to the presence of candy.
No, instead we had a Sunday roast. Granny and Grandpa visited us with their cooking kit in hand, and Sophia greeted them at the door. I believe these dinners used to be more frequent in the days of the 1950s or around about then. But as the new generations press forward with their technological deference, they’re seen less often. We, at least, try to observe the tradition with some degree of regularity, albeit to celebrate something special.
This time, we were appreciating my nephew, Niklas', breaking of a week-long experimental diet. I’ll save you the details, but it was one where he definitely needed an indulgence at the end. I’ll also save my whinging about how my last diet, which lasted four times longer, was much less ceremonious.
Granny prepared a small feast of roast beef, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and corn, and Yorkshire pudding – not quite Christmas in portion or volume, but wonderful to say the least. Grandpa was immoveably stuffed and turned down the last ear of corn – quite the achievement for Granny.
In fact, it was so much, that only two, wide-screen phone-photos were required.
For the uninitiated, the plate on the left is full of the aforementioned Yorkshire puddings. They’re flaky, bowl-shaped treats that remind me of a dinner biscuit. I’ve never made one myself, nor do I know why they’re called “pudding,” but they do number among the tastier British staples. I’ll leave it to you to research “black pudding."
The highest praise I can offer Granny is to give my best effort in plating the courses and preparing them for a glamour shot. To those paying close attention, no, that glass is not graced with an evening tipple, rather apple juice.
As the rule goes in our house, the chef makes the food and the rest of us do the washing up. So after the meal was through, Grandpa and I tied a bow on the evening with our hands sudded up and the dishwasher roaring. I would add that I got the chef’s assurance that this roast was only her 99% best work. She promised the full %100 at the end of my diet in a month!
Tomorrow begins the first official day of the health kick that I’ve mentioned a few times. Sophia and I took a desparate trip to East Killbride mall to pick up a small bottle of Otrivine, a nasal decongestant. I’m trying to ensure that I get the best chance at a restful night before that all-too-early 4:00 a.m. alarm when I’m off to the races. Hopefully, my stuffy nose will be kind to me tonight and I can start strong. Tomorrow’s the baseline, so no real pressure just yet. But better safe than sorry.
As readers, be prepared to have a slightly grumpier version of me for the next few days or so. There will be some adjustment, as there always is, but I’ll do my best to filter out the rougher parts or at least catch the angst in an editorial sieve before publishing.