H o l y
R o a s t
Holy Roast words by Rebecca Lauren and photography by Chloe Ray
This piece is based on a personal experience but it's not exactly a story or a specific event, more of a vignette I suppose? The idea was to try and describe the almost ritualistic family tradition of Sunday dinner and how it acts as a homing beacon no matter how far you move away. A kind of constant that never really changes even as the family grows and dynamics shift.
Sunday comes again. At the old church, the vicar gives his sermon and the organ plays ‘Break Thou the Bread of Life’. In a kitchen ten minutes along the road, Grandma turns up the radio so she can bob and shuffle to Shaky on her slippers while she plays the melody of feeding: chopping sounds over mixing sounds over cooking sounds. A spoon rings on the side of a metal bowl like a bell, and this is our call to worship. Gather at the range to start the procession: you take the plates, I’ll take the parsnips. Sunday dinner is a ritual steeped in tradition. The congregation take their seats: they’ve come from far and wide on this weekly pilgrimage to see the high priestess in her ceremonial robes (checked pinny over comfy Sunday trousers) place the sacrificial fowl on the altar. Before we begin, the customary recital of the sacred text: “Are you not having any green beans?” “I don’t like green beans, Granddad.” “They’re home-grown you know – fresh from the garden this morning.” “That’s great. I don’t like them.” “You’ll get scurvy.” “Oh, shut up, Colin. She doesn’t like them.” “No one gets scurvy anymore!”
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“Not when they eat their green beans they don’t.” Today’s order of service is thus: the parable of the foolish man who took up three spaces with his Range Rover in Sainsbury’s car park; Is there something different about the potatoes this week? and other eternal questions; Hymn 32 ‘If You Don’t Leave the Empty Mustard Pot Out of the Cupboard How Am I Going to Know We Need a New One?’ A hush descends on the hallowed hall of the dining room. From this point on, the script is subject to change. Will today’s gathering culminate in joyous celebration? Will someone storm away from the table and slam the bathroom door in a fit of family-induced pique? The best method of predicting the outcome is through one well-timed question: What’s for pudding? “Wait and see,” the sage preaches serenely. All at once, praises are sung ecstatically to the rafters. Wait and see, as we all know, means rice pudding – and no rice pudding Sunday has ever ended in tears. Custard – well that carries certain risks with it; emotions run high when custard is involved. But today we sup on a dessert unrivalled in its powers of unification. The bowls are fetched. Before we begin this second course, another recital: