I miss the Sunday lunches of my childhood, when we were all together

For the first time in months, I’m craving Sunday lunch. It only takes a small drop in temperature for the idea of this meal to land heavily in my psyche like a dollop of bread sauce.

That, and the fact that The Good Food Guide sent me a press release to say they were looking for recommendations for Best Sunday Lunch in the UK. 

Indeed, there are plenty of top Scottish restaurants where you can get The Works. 

The crispy roasties, a bloody bit of beef, a glass of red wine on the side. 

Maybe I’ll treat myself. My body wants to pad itself out to survive the colder months that loom. I’ll be like the Michelin man, with an inbuilt puffer jacket.

However, the lunch I’m pining for is the one we used to have at home. I’m not sure if people even do those sorts of Sunday lunches anymore. 

It doesn’t seem like a very Generation Z concept.

For years, it was our family tradition. 

Indeed, even as kids, it was the only meal we ate all together. On weekdays, the children - ie. my sister and I  - would have tea at the kitchen table at the early time of 6pm, and the grown-ups would eat dinner later, with trays on their laps in front of the telly, probably watching Inspector Morse or something. 

(Poor mum, having to whip up two dinners every night. One round of crispy pancakes, then lamb chops and two veg.

It was only at Christmas and on a Sunday when we’d have to talk to face each other at lunch.

We kept up the tradition even after my sister and I had left home and my parents moved away from Edinburgh for a quiet retired life in the Borders. 

When my nieces were tiny, we’d still make it through. (Though the nephew, aged six, was born after my dad died, so he missed the boat when it comes to Sunday lunches).

The younger Soutar generation are good eaters and loved these meals, though their frocks and the carpet would be a mess after they’d finished stuffing themselves. 

Small children and gravy do not go together. 

Back then, I’d sometimes feel grumpy about the weekly commitment and journey, but I’d love to have just one more of those get-togethers now. 

All together, before age and illness hit.

The food would always smell so come-hither, as we’d burst through their door at noon.

There would never be particularly serious conversations at our family feed, just silliness. (Though, I do remember at one Sunday lunch, my dad gave me a memorable pep talk because I was heartbroken after splitting with a boyfriend, and couldn’t eat). 

Whichever of their succession of spoiled cats was on the go would sit beside one of our chairs - usually mine, because I’m a soft touch  - to beg for a little scrap of meat.

My mum, as always, did all the cooking. 

She churned out so many lunches and never complained. Again, poor mum.

However, as she’s not a tattie fan, she’d always forget to put the potatoes on, so we’d sometimes have to go without those essential components. I’d occasionally preempt her and whack them on as soon as I got in the house, since I can’t do a meal without carb. Yorkshire puddings, on the other hand, I have never understood, though the rest of my family love them.

When everything was ready, my sister would cunningly offer to serve, using our ancient electric carving knife. This was to ensure that she got as much of the pork crackling as possible. Her plate was always heaped high with the best bits.

I always felt that my portion was the smallest. 

Anyway, I was more of a chicken fan, especially since my mum would lay strips of bacon across its top, to crisp up in the oven. 

My jobs were to make the gravy, lay the table, and put out the condiments. 

The Soutar family always loved those. Apple sauce, bread sauce, mint jelly, horseradish, mustard, redcurrant and cranberry. It’s not a Sunday roast without a dollop of something jammy. 

We’d also often have sausages - not chipolatas, but the full sized kahunas - on the side. 

That seems unnecessary lardy to me, now. But, so does the cauliflower cheese that we’d also usually have as a trimming. 

Our plates would be overflowing with stuff, none of it from the healthy category.

For pudding, the regulars were mandarin cheesecake, apple crumble, strudel or my dad’s favourite bread and butter pudding.

The latter was dubbed ‘bread and buttock’, and that tradition continues to this day. 

The final sugary and stodgy flourish would ensure you’d be melded to the sofa for the afternoon until it was time to hit the road back to Edinburgh.

I’m getting to a stage of life (and a time of year) when I really miss those days.

Dad is long gone, and mum isn’t able to cook anymore. That may or may not be a relief to her. 

I don’t have kids, so it’s not a thing in my household.

However, when I was up at my mum’s house the other day, I spotted the old electric carving knife at the back of a cupboard. I wonder if it still works? 

Maybe it’s time to give it a try. Except, I’ll do the serving this time. And we’re having chicken.