Sunday Lunch is a tradition in England that steadfastly refuses to die.
People who assiduously avoid the stove all week will, for some reason, dust off the pressure cookers, turn up the gas to high and come over all Nigella Lawson (better than cumming all over Nigella Lawson - there's a Brit gag to make you gag).
Across the nation vegetables are over cooked, meat is heated past the point of charring - being allowed out of the oven only when it's threatening to pass the tipping point on the way to diamond and grandparents are invited over to share in this tradition of culinary disaster.
My parent's house is no different to any other on the street when it comes to Sunday Lunch. Ed the Ted (my mom's mom) comes over and is joined by my dad's dad. My mom flies around the kitchen, fighting her way through the steam whilst my dad does all of the manly things - which seems to entail removing lumps (from gravy, from mashed potatoes, from that orange pile of veg that might once have been a carrot, was then a puree and is now a soupy sauce) and carving meat with an electric knife held together with bits of tape.
Meanwhile the oldsters scream out cross word puzzle clues to each other and talk about the price of bingo markers, tripe and rain hoods. Or thery would if they were properly old - instead they talk about soccer players, soccer player's wives, Israel, the Lebanon and the racist attitudes of people generations younger than themselves.
Only half the conversation is heard - above the noise of electric carving, steam and whistling hearing aid batteries but it's a good time. A very good time. And it makes me appreciate that it's not what you eat but how you eat that matters.
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